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Novels by Christian Reid. 

The Picture of Las Cruces. A Romance of Mexico. 

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New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 




Then in the starlight he saw her pause, and apparently kneel clown against the railing. ’ p. 30. 








EBB-TIDE, 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


BY 

CHKISTIAX REID, 


ACTHOB OF 

“MOETON house,” “vALEEIE AYLMEE,” “MABEL LEE,” ETC., ETC. 


I 





“We must take the current when it serves, 
Or lose our ventures.” 



NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

72 FIFTH AVENUE. 


v.> 



1899. 



TWO Copies received. 










L ibrary of C0ligr9t% 
OffUo of tilt 

MAY1 01MO 

Uegistor of Copyrlgblft 


SECOND COPY, 




CtUVEft-iTriN 

■'"ftJAYUigOO ') 

^22'ofCoo^tf? 


61506 

lorrEBEDj according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, 
D. APPLETON & CO., 

In the Ofllce of the Librarian of Congress, at Was : ington. 


1900' 


•.’y-' i,' 


'• T-i. 




OOl^TEISTTS. 


EBB-TIDE. 


PAET 1. 

TEE TIDE AT ITS FLOOD. 

PAGE 

I. “ ‘ HE COMETH NOT,’ SHE SAID.” . Y 


li. A CHARMING CHATELAINE . . 12 

III. — MADELON GIVES ADVICE . .17 

IV. UNDER THE STARLIGHT . . 24 

V. ERLES AND ERLES . . . .30 

VI. — “ SEE, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES ! ” 36 

VII. STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS . . 42 

VIII. THE ENCHANTED LAND ^ . 47 

IX. — FLOOD-TIDE 63 

X. — “ LOVE HATH SET OUR DAYS IN MUSIC 

TO THE SELF-SAME AIR ” . .68 


PART n. 

TEE TIDE EBBS. 

?AGB 

I. DOES TRUTH SOUND BITTER ? 64 

II. — THE TRUTH ELSEWHERE . 69 

III. “ GO TO MARTINIQUE ! ” . .72 

IV. CHECKED AND CHECKMATED 77 

V. AN EMPTY NEST . . . .82 

VI. A NEW CHAMPION . . . 88 

VII. — DRAMATIC CAPABIIITIES . . 93 

VIII. “ MON CAMARADE ! ” . . 98 

IX. “ ONE FACE ! ” . . . . 102 

X. THE TIDE GOES OUT . . 106 


115 


MISS INGLESBY’S. SISTER-IN-LAW 
THE STORY OF A SCAR 
A DOUBT 


145 

167 



* 

EBB-TIDE. 


PART I. 

THE TIDE AT ITS FLOOD. 


“ There will no man do for your sake, I think, 

What I would have done for the least word said ; 
I had wrung my life dry for your lips to drink, 
Broken it up for your dally bread.” 


CHAPTER 1. 

“ ‘ HE COMETH NOT,’ SHE SAID.” 

Ten o’clock on a glorious May day, with the 
freshly-risen sea-breeze sweeping over the 
sparkling waters of Charleston harbor; the 
bright sun gilding all thmgS with a flood of 
golden glory ; the white shipping dazzling the 
eyes like snow ; the wooded shores clothed 
in a royal garment of soft purple mist ; the 
stately city throned like a queen between her 
“ swiftly-flowing ” rivers, while the surf of the 
great Atlantic beats like music at her feet ; a 
fragrance of roses pervading the air, and an 
abounding sense of glory and vitality in the 
buoyant atmosphere ! Nature has opened all 
her choicest stores on this marvellously lovely 
day, this 15th of May, 185- ; there is not a 
tint known to art which she is not wearing, 
and many — ^how many ! — for which art has 
neither name nor power to reproduce. Out 
on the sea there is an opalescent glory, chang- 
ing and shifting with every gleam of light that 
catches the foam-crested waves as they rise 
and chase each other like merry children in 
the sunshine ! The land seems panting under 
its wealth of loveliness, of fragrance, and of 
bloom ! Everywhere is spread earth’s match- 
less livery of green and gold ; every breath of 
air is flower -scented; every sound— even the 


city’s distant hum of pleasure and traffic — is 
subordinate to the divine anthem which the 
myriad voices of Nature are chanting — the 
sweet invitation which they give to the chil- 
dren of men. “ Come ! ” say the waves in 
their soft tones of ceaseless, rhythmic music. 
“ Come ! ” echo the happy songs of birds, the 
merry chirp of the great, invisible insect-world. 
“ Come ! ” whisper the breezes softer than those 
of Araby the Blest. “ Come ! ” murmur the trees, 
gently swaying their emerald leaves and fling- 
ing graceful shadows over the velvet turf — 
“ come and be happy ! ” And how few answer ! 
— how few do not go on their way, be it to funer- 
al or to feast, with blinded eyes and deafened 
ears ! Yet, to those who love her as she should 
be loved, is not Nature God’s ambassador upon 
earth, speaking, in every quiver of her wondrous 
light and shade, “ glad tidings of great joy? ” 
0 rare, sweet magna mater ! In all this weary, 
sin-laden, suffering-steeped world, there is 
nothing like to thee ; there is no joy like thy 
joy, no beauty like thy beauty, no glory like 
thy glory ; thou who art still as fair and young 
and fresh as when thy flrst dew-drops glittered 
in the sunlight of the creation morning, and 
even thy gracious Maker owned that thou wert 
“ good ! ” And who would see this noble mis- 
tress in her most royal mood, who would wor- 
ship at her most royal shrine, must seek her 
where she loves best to dwell — under the deep- 


8 


EBB-TIDE. 


blue Southern sky, by the purple Southern wa- 
ters, far in the gorgeous depths and dim re- 
cesses of the aromatic Southern woods! No- 
where else does she hold out her arms with 
such a tender embrace, nowhere else does she 
woo us with such regal charms, nowhere else 
does she wear such robes of state as clothe her 
amid the glory and beauty of these enchanted 
scenes. 

Yet a girl, who stands on the pleasant Bat- 
tery, leaning against the railing, and looking 
with wistful eyes far adown the bright bay to 
the broad ocean beyond, seems wholly uncon- 
scious of all the witchery round her. She has 
tilted her hat forward so as to keep the sun 
out of her eyes, and there she leans, a mo- 
tionless, absorbed figure, heeding the curious 
glances of the few loiterers who come and go, 
as little as the boundless glory of earth and 
sea and sky. A vessel is just crossing the bar 
into the harbor; the day is so wonderfully 
clear that through 

“ The purple noon’s transparent light ” 

it is possible to catch a glimpse of the spars 
and rigging outlined against the sky — no hor- 
rible, ugly steamer, belching forth black 
smoke, but a graceful sailing-vessel, with slen- 
der masts and snow-white canvas, outspread like 
an angel’s wings. The girl lifts an opera-glass 
to her eyes, and gazes eagerly — oh, so eagerly 1 
— toward the new-comer, the stranger, perhaps, 
the friend it may be. Two or three nurses, 
accompanied by children, pass, and, stopping, 
gaze also, open-mouthed, at the cloud of can- 
vas far away. They can find nothing remark- 
able about it, however ; so, after a time, they 
continue their promenade. Other nurses fol- 
low, other children scamper past — the Battery 
is at all hours the paradise of these two class- 
es of the population ; then come two ladies 
(veiled so as to effectually shut out all possibil- 
ity of enjoying the day I); then an old gentle- 
man, walking leisurely with his hands behind 
his back; then a yaung gentleman on horse- 
back, who looks keenly at the graceful, motion- 
less figure with the opera-glass levelled (appar- 
ently) at Fort Sumter ; then a tall, handsome 
girl, who, ascending the steps, walks directly 
up to the figure in question and touches its 
arm. 

“ Ermine ! ” she says, sharply. Then — as 
the opera-glass falls, and the girl turns round 

“ How can you stand here making a figure 
of yourself for the amusement of all the pass- 


ers-by? If I were you, I would have more 
dignity. Aunt Victorine sent me for you ; she 
said she thought you would be here.” 

“ What does she want with me ? ” asked 
Ermine, with evident signs of rebellion about 
the eyes and lips. 

The other shrugged her shoulders — a gest- 
ure which betrayed her Gallic nationality at 
once. 

“ How can I tell ? Ma lante keeps her own 
counsel, you may be sure. Perhaps she does 
not want you to* stand here ‘ like Patience on 
a monument,’ for all Charleston to stare at 
and talk about. I can’t wonder at that, I am 
sure 1 ” 

“ What do I care for being stared at or 
talked about ? ” 

“ Nothing, of course ; but Aunt Victorine 
cares a good deal, you see.” 

“ I only came out for a walk ” (impatient- 
ly). “ Why cannot mamma let me alone ? ” 

“ Only for a walk ! ” repeated the other, 
mockingly. “ And how far have you walked ? 
I wager my pearl necklace (which is the most 
valuable thing I have in the world) that you 
have not stirred from the spot since you came 
here.” 

“ Well ” (a little defiantly), “ what then ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing then — except that I don’t 
think your exercise will be likely to benefit you 
much. Raymond said last night you were look- 
ing quite pale.” 

“ Raymond’s opinion is not of the least im- 
portance to me.” 

“ Of course not ; it is not to be supposed 
that anybody’s opinion weighed with the for- 
lorn Marianna, when 

‘ She said, “ I am aweary, 

He cometh not,” she said ; 

She said, “ I am aweary, 

I would that I were dead.” ’ 

Only you haven’t quite reached that point yet 
— ^have you, ma belle ? ” 

“ If you came here to amuse yourself by 
laughing at me, Madelon, I think you might 
have stayed at home.” 

“ Do you suppose I came of my own accord, 
dear ? I thought I told you Aunt Victorine sent 
me.” 

“Ask her to send a servant next time, 
then,” said Ermine, coldly — after which she 
turned seaward again, and lifted her glass to 
her eyes. 

A dark-red flush came over the face of the 
girl called Madelon. 


‘“HE COMETH NOT,’ SHE SAID.” 


9 


“I presume she thought she was doing 
Bomething equivalent to that in sending me,” 
Bhe said, bitterly. “ It is kind of you, Ermine, 
to remind me of my position.” 

“ I did not intend to remind you of what 
you call your position, Madelon,” said Ermine, 
lowering the glass again with a sigh. — ^Ah ! 
there was no familiar outline about those spars 
and sails; it was a stranger and no friends 
after all. — “ You are so susceptible ” (she gave 
the word a French meaning and a French 
accent), “ that you always think one intends 
what has never entered one’s head. What is 
your position, after all ? I’m Mr. Erie’s step- 
daughter ; you are his wife’s niece : neither of 
us has any claim on him apart from mam- 
ma.” 

“ Is that all the difference between us ? ” 
asked Madelon, sarcastically. “Thank you. 
Ermine, for failing to remind me that you are 
an heiress, and I am a dependant.” 

“ But, Madelon — ” 

“ Only it would have been best to acknowl- 
edge the fact at once. Of course, it is absurd 
to suppose that it could have been out of your 
mind.” 

“ It has never been very much in my 
mind,” said Ermine, a little wearily. 

The other shrugged her shoulders again — 
this time with a skeptical smile out of unison 
with so young a face — ^then she, too, looked 
out over the bright bay, and nothing more was 
said for several minutes. 

They were first cousins, and considered 
very much alike, these two girls, yet the re- 
semblance was more in general appearance 
than in detail. Both were tall, both slender, 
both had the graceful bearing, the waxen com- 
plexion, and dark eyes of French creoles ; but 
there the likeness absolutely ended. Of the 
two, Madelon Lautrec had the most regular 
features, the most camellia-like skin, the most 
magnificent eyes, the most subtile grace of 
manner ; yet few people gave her the palm of 
beauty over her cousin Ermine St. Amand. 
What Ermine’s special charm was. Heaven 
only knows, for Heaven alone had given it to 
her ; but a charm she had, undoubtedly worth 
all the Hellenic noses and Oriental eyes in the 
world A slenderly-fashioned, delicately-fea- 
tured creature, she struck you at first — very fra- 
gile, very dainty, but so full of unspoken coquet- 
rie^ that you knew at once she must have French 
blood in her veins. A creature with wonder- 
ful possibilities of passion and pathos slum- 


bering in the depths of those dark eyes — eyes 
not half so large or bright as Madelon’s, but 
oh, so tenderly, witchingly soft I and quivering 
about the fiexile, sensitive lips. The outline 
of her face would never have served for marble, 
but it looked exceedingly well in flesh, and 
had that exquisite delicacy of modelling which 
we find only in the Southern races, while her 
voice had a chord of music in it such as one 
does not very often hear — a magic sweetness 
that might have been stolen from the sirens, 
her admirers said. There was none of this 
tender charm about Madelon. With all her 
beauty and all her grace, she was too cold, too 
proud — often too repulsively haughty — to win 
popular favor. She curled her scarlet lip 
over this fact, and thought in her young cyni- 
cism that it was natural enough, since she was 
“ no heiress like Ermine.” But, although the 
world is the world, and heiress-ship is always 
a first-class recommendation to its favor, other 
things weigh also in the balance of its verdict. 
Some natures win their own way, let Fortune 
do her best or worst — and Ermine’s was one 
of these. In a palace or a hovel, she would 
still have been one of those favored children 
of partial Nature — 

“ One handful of whose buoyant chaff 
Exceeds our hoard of careful grain.” 

“Well,” said Madelon, after a while, “ what 
am I to tell Aunt Victorine — that you prefer 
to spend the day ‘ on a lone rock by the sea,* 
or that you are coming home ? I must return, 
for I promised Margaret to go out shopping 
with her, and I know she is waiting for me.” 

“ I will go back also,” said Ermine, with 
unexpected docility. “ There is no good in 
staying here ; though I do think mamma might 
have left me alone.” 

“ When you grow a little older, you will 
find that nobody ever is left alone,” said Made- 
lon, philosophically. “We are all worried 
more or less by our affectionate relatives ; and 
— Is that Mr. Saxton yonder ? I wonder what 
he is doing here at this hour of the day ? 
Come ! — if we stay five minutes longer, we 
shall have to undergo a catechism about Mar- 
garet’s health and appearance.” 

“ Perhaps he has come to loiter about until 
it is late enough for a call,” hazarded Ermine. 
“ He looks as if he meant something serious — 
don’t you think so ? ” 

“He looks as if he were loaded to the brim 
with a proposal, and ready to explode at any 
moment,” said Madelon. “ Grace d Dieu . 


10 


EBB-TIDE. 


Poor as I am, would I marry a man who came 
to offer himself to me in such a coat as that ? ” 

“ 1 fancy Margaret will give him his ‘ route ’ 
as summarily as you could desire,” said Ermine, 
laughing. 

“ His ‘ route ’ ! ” repeated, the other. “ Is 
that all you know about it ? But hush ! — here 
he comes. Don’t be stopped, if you can help 

it.” 

Here he came indeed — a short, stout man, 
of florid complexion, large nose (belonging to 
the class which partial friends call “ Napole- 
onic”), blond mustache, and coat which 
merited all of Madelon’s scorn, inasmuch as, 
being too short-waisted, it gave him (why, it is 
impossible to say) the appearance of an over- 
grown frog. Yet he was not an ugly man, by 
any means — on the contrary, most people 
called Mr. Saxton “ fine-looking,” which is 
rather an ambiguous term at best. A certain 
deplorable absence of refinement was his great- 
est drawback — ^his personal appearance being 
strongly suggestive of those Teutonic gentle- 
men whom we see in any and every beer-gar- 
den, drinking fabulous quantities of “ lager,” 
and eating fabulous numbers of “pretzels.” 
As far as anybody in America can know any 
thing about his antecedents, however, Mr. 
Saxton knew that he had no Dutch blood in 
his veins ; and when he uncovered his head — 
showing thereby a considerable spot “ where 
the hair wouldn’t grow” — he addressed the 
cousins in good English, instead of the German 
accent one involuntarily expected. 

“ Good-morning, young ladies — I am glad 
to see you looking so blooming after our dis- 
sipation last night ” (heavy gallantry was Mr. 

. Saxton’s style when he attempted gallantry at 
all). “ I hope you don’t feel very much used 
up by it ? ” 

“ Dissipation ! ” repeated Madelon, with an 
arch of her scornful brows. “ Do you call 
that festive occasion last night ‘ dissipation,’ 
Mr. Saxton ? I should as soon think of calling 
strawberry-ice an intoxicating beverage! I 
don’t feel at all used up, thank you — nothing 
short of a three o’clock German ever does use 
me up 1 Perhaps you do not feel so, how- 
ever.” 

“ On the contrary, I feel very well indeed,” 
said Mr. Saxton, coloring a little on top of his 
head. “ I — ah — thought we had a very charm- 
ing evening. Mrs. Fontaine’s entertainments 
are always in excellent style.” 

“ I believe she always has an excellent 


supper,” said Madelon, “and that is what 
gentlemen mostly care about. I did not think 
the evening charming at all — I thought it 
horridly stupid. — Didn’t you. Ermine? The 
music was execrable, and scarcelya man worth 
looking at ! ” 

“ I thought it tolerably pleasant,” said 
Ermine, feehng her cousin’s rudeness, and 
striving to atone, yet in reality damning poor 
Mrs. Fontaine’s entertainment still more effect- 
ually by her faint praise. Then — making a 
headlong plunge into commonplaces — “ I see 
the lovely day has tempted you as well as our- 
selves to come out and enjoy it, Mr. Saxton.” 

“ Ah — yes — it is very pretty,” said Mr. 
Saxton, looking round and benignly patronizing 
the day. “ I intended to take a stroll until 
the hour for morning calls,” he went on. 
“ Then I hoped for the pleasure of inquiring 
how you ladies were. That I see is unneces- 
sary ; but Mrs. Erie and Miss Erie — ” 

“ Are both quite well, thanks,” interrupted 
Madelon, tapping her foot with ill-restrained 
impatience to be gone. “ Ermine, we had bet- 
ter not detain Mr. Saxton any longer.” 

“ Detain me ! ” said Mr. Saxton, gallantly. 
“ So far from that, if you are going home and 
will allow me — ” 

“No, thanks,” cried Madelon, hastily ; 
“ we are not going home — that is, not imme- 
diately. But no doubt you will find Aunt 
Victorine and Margaret in, if you care to in- 
quire whether or not they are ‘ used up.’ — Er- 
mine, we shall be late, I am afraid. — Good- 
morning, Mr. Saxton.” 

Hasty bows on both sides. Mr. Saxton 
continues his stroll with a faint sensation of 
having been snubbed, and a decided impres- 
sion that “ that Miss Lautrec ” is a very dis- 
agreeable young person. Ermine is hurried 
off down the first flight of steps, and then says, 
indignantly : 

“ Madelon, I am ashamed of you 1 Why 
did you treat the poor man so rudely ? It is 
not his fault that — that — ” 

“ That he is hateful and tiresome and con- 
ceited ? ” said Madelon. “ No, I suppose not ; 
but it is Margaret’s business to bear him, not 
mine — and I certainly don’t mean to do volun- 
teer work. Juste Ciel ! how heavy on 'hand 
she will find him for the rest of her natural 
life 1 ” 

“ She will never marry him,” said Ermine. 
“ I would risk any thing on that.” 

“ Indeed ! ” returned Madelon, sneeringly, 


‘“HE COMETH NOT,’ SHE SAID.” 


11 


Then I don’t mind laying a wager with you. 
Precious as my necklace is to me, I will put it 
up against any thing you please, that Mar- 
garet is engaged to Mr. Saxton within — well, I 
will give myself a wide margin, and say three 
days. She may hold out a little while against 
the powers that be, but her contumacy won’t 
be of long duration.” 

“ I don’t believe it ! ” said Ermine, deter- 
minedly. “ You forget — Raymond ! ” 

“ Raymond ! ” repeated the other, in aston- 
ishment. She turned, looked at her compan- 
ion, and then burst into a laugh. “ I beg 
your pardon, my dear, but indeed you ought 
to be put under a glass case and labelled ‘/w- 
genue^ If it were not yourself, I should think 
you were a most consummate hypocrite, but as 
it is — why, have you no eyes, no ears, no 
quickness of perception ? Don’t you see that 
Raymond is sick and tired of Margaret, and 
that he is straining every nerve to get her mar- 
ried and out of his way ? ” 

“Out of his way! How is she m his 
way ? ” 

“ Ermine, don’t try my credulity too far,” 
said Madelon, with her cynical smile — the 
smile which had come from overmuch study 
of Balzac and George Sand, coupled with a 
natural ability to catch the undercurrent of 
life — “ you are a woman, not a child. You 
must see and know that Raymond means to 
marry i/ow.” 

Surge went a tide of carnation over Er- 
mine’s clear, white skin — ^flash came a gleam 
of something like fire into her soft, dark 
eyes. 

“I am a woman,” she said; “ not a child 
to be bartered away, or given away, Madelon. 
Raymond is not such a fool as to ‘ mean ’ to 
marry a woman who would never be induced 
to marry him.” 

“ I am not much of a phrenologist,” said 
Madelon, carelessly, “ but it seems to me that 
I have only to look at Raymond’s head or face, 
or whatever it is that kind of people profess 
to judge by, to see that he never made a plan 
yet — and gave it up.”. 

“ Then he had better not make any plan 
with regard to me,” said Ermine, with decisive 
hauteur. 

Mademoiselle Lautrec shrugged her shapely 
shoulders once more. 

“I sometimes think Raymond has taken 
for his own the motto of Philip of Spain — 
‘ Time and I against any two,’ ” she said. 


“ He will be a great man some of these days 
— if he doesn’t overreach himself or die be- 
forehand. Those are the two lions in the paths 
of most clever men. If I were in your place. 
Ermine, I think I should take him. There are 
possibilities of something more than ordinary 
in him ; and that is more than can be said o'* 
the majority of men.” 

“ Then why don’t you take him yourself ? 
said Ermine, magnanimously. 

“ I ! ” — lifling the white eyelids from her 
magnificent eyes. “ What are you thinking of ? 
It is very ill-bred to make personal application 
of one’s remarks. I am Madelon Lautrec, 
with ray face for my fortune ; and unfortu- 
nately that species of capital is not recognized 
on ’Change. You are Mademoiselle St. Amand, 
the West-Indian heiress, with — 

‘A very fine fortune — when told in centimes ’ - 

interrupted Ermine, smiling. “Never mind, 
Madelon — little or great, in a few months I 
shall be the legal possessor of it. I can go 
and live with my dear guardian, in my dear 
Martinique ! ” 

“ An entrancing prospect, truly ! ” said 
Madelon, dryly. “ I wonder how long your en- 
thusiasm for your dear Martinique will last 
after you get there ? Here we are, however — 
and now I must tell Aunt Yictorine about Mr. 
Saxton, so that she can keep Margaret at 
home.” 

“ Tell Margaret,” suggested Ermine, “ and 
see what she will do.” 

“ Margaret has more sense than you give 
her credit for,” said Madelon, coolly. “ If I did 
tell her, I think she would — stay.” 

They had by this time reached one of the 
prettiest and most attractive of those charming 
Battery villas — for villas they certainly are in 
appearance, whether defined thus or not — 
which are the admiration of every stranger 
visiting Charleston. The lives of those who 
inhabit them must certainly have fallen in 
pleasant places, we think, as we sit and gaze 
at them from the dickering shade that falls 
athwart some tempting bench. But, after all, 
is it not rather deceptive work, this judging the 
lives of people by the outside of their habita- 
tions ? Few dwellings could have looked more 
airy, more elegant, more redolent of all things 
essential to happiness, than the stately house 
of many galleries, balconies, and bay-windows, 
before which the cousins paused ; and yet — 
but it is scarcely worth while to tell a story by 


12 


EBB-TIDE. 


insinuation or anticipation. Let us in, and 
see for ourselves. 

»■ 

CHAPTER II. 

A CHARMING ChIteLAINE. 

Madelon walked directly into the house, 
but Ermine paused a minute before entering, 
and gazed back wistfully at the shining waters 
from the side of which she had come. The 
windows of the house did not overlook the 
harbor, but fronted instead on that lovely 
Battery square which was now wearing its 
brightest livery of emerald-green, the shell 
road gleaming white through intervening ver- 
dure, the blue waters of the Ashley beyond, 
and the wooded shores of James Island robed 
in tender, mist-like haze. It was a day of se- 
rene and heavenly calm — a day of golden 
splendor, “ astray from paradise ” — a day on 
which it seemed as if happiness must descend 
from that distant sapphire sky, like God’s own 
angel, sent to bless all eager, yearning human 
hearts. 

“If he would only come, it would all be 
80 perfect ! ” the girl said half aloud. 

And by “ all ” she did not mean any human 
influences, but only this fair, bright Nature, 
who wore her royal beauty like a smiling 
bride — Nature, whose joyous bidding sAe felt in 
every fibre, but whom she could not heed, with 
whom she could not rejoice, while her perverse, 
longing heart flew like a bird far away over the 
waters. Something — a shade, as it were — came 
to her face, as she turned and followed Made- 
Ion across a frescoed, marble-paved hall into a 
sitting-room which was simply a model of what 
a sitting-room should be — not very sumptuous, 
but luxurious and charming in the extreme. 
At one end a bay-window overlooked the 
street ; just opposite the door two large French 
windows opened on a gallery, which, in turn, 
“ gave ” on a flower-garden. The fragrance of 
roses and jasmine came in through the open 
window and filled the bowery room 

“Like sweet thoughts in a dream,” 

while the garden itself seemed a wilderness of 
bloom, a paradise of roses, clustering, hanging, 
twining everywhere, of graceful arches and 
trellises draped with vines, of trees with deep- 
green, glossy leaves, and white flowering 
ehrubs. In furniture the apartment was some- 


what nondescript. There was a piano in one 
corner, a carved bookcase in another, a broad 
low, easy couch in a third, lounging-chairs in- 
numerable, pictures, brackets, vases full of cut 
flowers, and a centre-table covered with books, 
work, periodicals, and newspapers. Across the 
hall was a suite of apartments said to be the 
most perfect in Charleston — rooms full of 
white statues, rare pictures, and gleaming mir- 
rors ; but all habitues of the house preferred 
this pretty boudoir with its charming mixture 
of comfort and refinement, and regarded it as 
a special compliment to be admitted here. One 
thing about the room struck the most inatten- 
tive observer in marked degree : it was impos- 
sible to enter it without perceiving at a glance 
that it was accustomed to enshrine the pres- 
ence of some woman more than ordinarily 
gifted with the refinement and grace which, 
above all else, make a woman lovely in the 
sight of man. 

And such a woman was standing in one of 
the French windows, giving some directions to 
the gardener about the training of a vine, when 
Madelon entered. A very fine and gracious 
lady. That was your first impression of Mrs. 
Erie, and, if you saw her twenty times a day, 
you were never tempted to alter that opinion. 
Whether or not she were beautiful, you did not 
pause to inquire ; who ever does, when that 
nameless charm of manner, that unconscious 
magnetism of glance, which only a few rare 
women possess, is brought to bear on the 
startled yet acquiescent senses ? But, if once 
forced to cold-blooded scrutiny, you found that 
Mrs. Erie stood the test of criticism as well as 
she stood the test of every thing else. Not 
strictly beautiful, perhaps — how few are ! — but 
handsome, distinguished, and most unexcep- 
tionably thorough-bred in appearance — a wom- 
an who looked as if only the bluest of “ blue 
blood” could possibly flow in her delicate 
azure veins. To describe her in detail would 
be impossible — for she was preeminently a 
woman who lost by being “ picked to pieces ” 
— but, taken as a whole, she was thoroughly 
harmonious, thoroughly graceful, and thor- 
oughly fascinating to women as well as men. 

She finished her directions before she 
looked round — giving them in a clear, pure 
voice, full of that indescribable modulation of 
refinement which is the despair of those who 
do not catch it in early childhood — then 
turned and advanced into the room as Made 
Ion was saying— 


A CHARMING CHATELAINE. 


13 


“ I wish I was as sure of a great many 
things I should like to know as that he will 
ring the door-bell the moment the clock strikes 
the last stroke of twelve.” 

“ He will not find me at home, then,” re- 
sponded a petulant voice from the cushions of 
the couch, where an amber-haired, white-robed 
divinity reclined, in an attitude that might 
have served for the “ Persian girl ” whom Mr. 
Tennyson saw in his excursion up the Tigris, 
to “ Bagdad’s shrines of fretted gold.” 

This was “ the beautiful Miss Erie ” — a 
radiant bird-of-paradise, over whom men raved, 
and of whom women steered clear, conscious 
that her brilliant fairness simply “ killed ” all 
lesser charms. Even stately, handsome Made- 
Ion looked almost plain beside her, perfect as 
she was in every outline of feature, and daz- 
zling in all the bewildering tints that make 
blond beauty so captivating to the eye. Peo- 
ple had likened Margaret Erie to every goddess 
of antiquity and every poetical saint in the 
calendar, until Margaret, well aware of this 
fact, esteemed it a point of conscience to pose 
accordingly. It was incumbent upon her 
never to be out of drawing, as artists say, to 
be always ready as an inspiration for a poet, 
or a study for a painter ; so, from sheer force 
of habit, she sank into a graceful attitude if 
nobody more important than a canary was by ; 
and even arranged herself with due regard to 
picturesque effect when she retired to her 
chamber to sleep. If Miss Erie’s undeniable 
beauty was, in consequence, a little spoiled by 
self-consciousness, it was scarcely wonderful. 
A young lady cannot conveniently be “ Idalian 
Aphrodite,” Calypso, Hebe, St. Cecilia, all the 
Graces, the whole family of the Muses, and 
herself, into the bargain. Somebody must 
necessarily suffer in the matter ; and that 
somebody is generally herself. At present 
Miss Erie was enthroned like an odalisk, 
amid cushions, the soft-blue tint of which en- 
hanced the transparent fairness of her com- 
plexion, showed to advantage the pure, paly- 
gold of her hair, and made an effective back- 
ground for her clear Greek profile — a fair, 
languid enchantress, whose manifest delight it 
was to ensnare men’s souls in the meshes of 
her glittering tresses, and drown them in the 
depths of her violet eyes — but an enchantress 
most potent when she was silent, least likely 
to charm when she spoke. After all. Nature 
is less capricious in the distribution of her 
gifts than we are sometimes tempted to ima- 


gine. The most fascinating women are not gen. 
erally the most beautiful, and rarely indeed are 
the most beautiful the most fascinating. It is 
not so much a heart as a mind that dolls gen- 
erally lack, not so much the power to attract 
as the power to retain ; for regular features 
and “ sun-kissed ” hair are pretty enough in 
the abstract, but not always charming in the 
concrete. 

“ Who will not find you at home ? ” asked 
Mrs. Erie, turning round. Then, as Margaret 
kept silence, “Of whom are you speaking, 
Madelon ? ” 

“ Of Mr. Saxton,” answered Madelon. 
“We met him on the Battery, and I was just 
telling Margaret that he means to call, and 
‘ hopes to find Miss Erie at home.’ ” 

“ He will be disappointed, then,” said Miss 
Erie. “ I must go out to do some shopping. I 
thought you were never coming, Madelon.” 

“Your admirer detained me, my dear,” 
said Madelon. “Perhaps you had better think 
twice about going out, for he has plainly 
screwed his courage to the sticking-point, and 
means to take advantage of it before it oozes 
out at his fingers, like that of Bob Acres. I 
would not for the world hurt your feelings, 
but his appearance strongly reminded me of 
that charming old ballad about 

‘ A frog he would a wooing go. 

Heigh-ho, says Rowley I 
Whether his mother would let him or no, 
Heigh-ho, says Rowley ! ’ 

“ What was the fate of the frog, by-the-by ? 
I don’t remember.” 

“ Pretty much what will be the fate of Mr. 
Saxton, if he chooses to make a fool of him- 
self, I presume,” retorted Margaret, irefully ; 
“ for it is provoking to have one’s admirers de- 
preciated, even if one does not mean to marry 
them.” 

“ Madelon, flippancy is a very undesirable 
accomplishment for a young lady,” said Mrs. 
Erie’s clear voice, a little coldly. “ Mr. Sax- 
ton is a very pleasant gentleman, and if he has 
said that he means to call, I hope, my dear ” 
(this to Margaret), “ that you will defer your 
shopping, and be at home to receive him.” 

A dark cloud of sullen obstinacy came over 
the lovely blond face, as we may see it come 
over many faces of just that “ angelic ” type. 
Perhaps it is this fact which makes one secret- 
ly incredulous concerning the prevailing fair- 
ness of the celestial hosts. At all events, let 
us hope that, when we get to heaven, we shall 


14 


EBB-TIDE. 


Bee some faces as dark, and bright, and frank, 
as we have seen on earth, and we can ask no 
more, either for them or for ourselves. 

“ I believe I should prefer to do my shop- 
ping, thank you, mamma,” said Miss Erie, un- 
gratefully, “ If you think Mr. Saxton so 
pleasant, you know you can receive him your- 
self.” 

“ I shall certainly receive him myself,” 
Answered Mrs. Erie, quietly. “ You know me 
well enough to be sure that I am never guilty 
of any thing so improper, or in such atrocious 
style, as to allow you to receive alone a man 
who has never declared himself. Indeed, I 
shall make it a point that Madelon and Ermine 
see him also.” 

“ I think, ma tante^ you can afford to let 
me off duty,” said Madelon, with her mocking 
smile. “ Mr. Saxton and I have already 
exchanged compliments, and I told him — a 
shocking story, by-the-way — that I was not 
coming home. He will not expect to be glad- 
dened by my presence, I assure you.” 

“ Ermine, then. But where is she ? Did 
you not request her to come home ? ” 

“Here I am, mamma,” said Ermine, en- 
tering at the moment. Do you want me ? ” 

“ Yes, I want you — or, rather, I don’t 
want you to stand on the Battery and tan your 
complexion, or take a sunstroke,” said Mrs. 
Erie. “ Your face is quite flushed now — you, 
who never have a color ! Ermine, this must 
really stop.” 

“ What must really stop, mamma ? ” asked 
Ermine, sitting down with a sigh. “ It is de- 
lightful out on the Battery ; such a fresh 
breeze blowing that it is much cooler than in 
here ; and as my for taking a sunstroke, I am 
about as likely to take the plague. I was only 
looking for — for Alan’s ship.” 

“ So I supposed, and therefore I sent for 
you. You know my wishes on that subject. 
Ermine ; and yet you openly and perversely 
disregard them. What am I to think of such 
conduct ? ” 

“ Indeed, I don’t know, mamma,” said Er- 
mine ; and the words, which might have been 
impertinent, were in truth only weary. Evi- 
dently much had been said on the subject — so 
much that, to one at least, it had become en- 
tirely exhausted and entirely distasteful. 

The stately, gracious lady flushed, and 
gave her daughter a glance in which it might 
have proved hard to tell whether impatience 
or contempt was most strikingly apparent. 


“ Perhaps you are not aware that yoJl 
habits are already the subject of much re- 
mark,” she said. “You forget that you are 
well known, and that it is impossible to stand 
on the Battery with an opera-glass at your 
eyes for several hours every day without at- 
tracting attention. Only last night Mrs. Law- 
son had the impertinence to ask roe if you 
were not engaged to that disrep — that unfor- 
tunate young man who is the captain of a 
trading-vessel.” 

“ Somebody asked me the same thing,” 
cried Margaret. “ I — I never was more angry 
in my life ! I think Ermine might remember 
that she compromises all the rest of the family 
by her conduct.” 

“ She compromises herself much more se- 
riously than any one else,” said Mrs. Erie’s 
quiet, incisive voice. “ Such a damaging re- 
port once circulated is never forgotten ; and 
there is no telling how much it may affect a 
girl’s establishment in life.” 

Ermine is mute — suddenly and strangely 
mute. A flush, deeper than that which her 
mother had remarked a moment before, dyes 
her clear, white skin, while the downcast lids 
veil effectually the averted eyes. As she sits 
by the table, tracing with one dainty boot an 
arabesque pattern on a Persian rug under her 
feet, she is a picture of obstinate defiance, they 
all think. 

“ There is Alice Stapleton,” said Margaret, 
who often spoke when it would have been 
wiser to keep silence, and whose illustrations 
were not always strikingly in point, “ who ever 
forgets that she was about to elope with a 
dancing-master when she was at school ? Of 
course she is very nice now, but I don’t be- 
lieve anybody worth speaking of will ever 
marry her.” 

“And do you call Alice Stapleton’s dis- 
graceful affair a parallel to my affection for 
Alan — ^Alan, whom I love better than any- 
body in the world except my dear guar- 
dian ? ” asked Ermine, lifting her eyes all 
ablaze with indignation, and fixing them on 
the speaker. 

“ For that matter, I call a dancing-master 
infinitely superior to a sea-captain any time,” 
retorted Margaret, whose forte was any thing 
in the world but amiability. “ Gentlemen are 
dancing-masters sometimes — at least one reads 
of such things.” 

“ And are gentlemen never sea-captains ? ” 
demanded Ermine, with ominous calm. '• I 


A CHARMING CHATELAINE. 


15 


shall be very much obliged to you for a defi- 
nite answer to that question.” 

Before Margaret could comply with this 
moderate request, Mrs. Erie interposed. 

“ I am ashamed of you both,” she said. 

“ Is this a mode for two well-bred people to 
discuss any subject ? Ermine, it is useless to 
attempt reasonable argument with you, I per- 
ceive ; but I am your mother, even if I am not 
your guardian, and I request ” (a strong accent 
here) “ that you will refrain from looking for 
Alan’s ship, where all Charleston can see and 
comment on your folly.” 

“ It is folly, no doubt, mamma, for it does 
not bring him any sooner — I can stay at 
home,” Ermine answered, quietly. 

This unusual submission took her audience 
quite by surprise. Even Madelon looked at 
her for a moment somewhat astonished, and a 
little suspicious. What did it mean ? Usually 
she fought d Vouirance over any point where 
“ Alan ” was even distantly concerned ; and 
now to give up this indulgence was singularly 
without precedent, to say the least. 

For a fortnight past, her feverish anxiety 
concerning his coming had grown day by day, 
and at all hours she and her opera-glass had 
haunted the Battery, until almost any mother 
in Charleston would have esteemed Mrs. Erie 
amply justified in decidedly “putting a stop 
to it,” as Mrs. Erie at last resolved to do. She 
had resolved it, however, with sundry misgiv- 
ings concerning the probable consequences of 
rebellion ; and this unconditional surrender 
was therefore most unexpectedly gratifying. 

“ Now, that is sensible — a very rare thing 
with you,” she said, approvingly. “ I cannot 
understand this sentimental fancy about Alan. 
That seems to be the weakest point of your 
character. Ermine. I wonder it never strikes 
you what he may think of it.” 

“ What may he think of it ? ” asked Er- 
mine, with level, half-defiant eyes. 

Mrs. Erie returned the gaze quietly, but, 
when she spoke, every word dropped with 
mercilessly cool decision on the three pairs of 
listening ears : 

“ He may think he has made a conquest of 
a foolish girl, who has not sufficient self-re- 
spect to conceal her folly.” 

“ Mamma ! ” It was a choking cry of in- 
dignation — a cry that absolutely made Mar- 
garet start among her downy blue cushions — 

“ mamma, how dare you speak so to me ? ” 

“ Ermine, have you lost your senses, that 1 


you dare to speak so to me ? ” asked her 
mother, sternly. 

Ermine gave a great gasp, shivered from 
head to foot, then, locking her hands tightly 
together, grew suddenly and rigidly calm. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she said. “ When 
one is insulted, one does not stop to think 
who offered the insult. Perhaps that may ex- 
cuse me. But ” — her eyes lightened here — 
“ if you think to estrange me from Alan by 
such taunts as this, you are mistaken. I love 
him too dearly, I trust him too entirely, to be- 
lieve that he would ever do me such injustice 
as to think any — any thing like that! He 
knows how I love him — he and God — for any 
one else, it does not matter. I am used to 
misconception — especially from you — for I 
have never had any thing else as long as I can 
remember.” 

“ And I am used to that charge,” said 
Mrs. Erie, with dignity. “ Fortunately, my own 
conscience acquits me of it ; and any one, who 
has ever known any thing of your rash and 
headstrong nature, will acquit me also.” 

“ Then let me go to my guardian — my dear 
guardian,” said Ermine, quivering. “ He has 
some love for me, some patience with me.” 

“ If I allowed you to go to that foolish old 
man, I don’t know what point your indiscre- 
tion would reach,” said Mrs. Erie, coldly. “ As 
it is, your recklessness and insubordination 
make the principal trouble of my life.” 

“ I am sorry for it,” said Ermine ; “ but 
perhaps — who knows ? — it may not be for 
long. I am sure, for your sake, I hope it 
may end very soon.” 

She spoke the last words half dreamily; 
then took her hat from the table where she 
had laid it, and walked out of the room, across 
the hall, and up the broad, easy staircase. 

There was silence in the bowery-room until 
the last echo of her footsteps died away. 
Then Mrs. Erie said ; 

“ Nobody who has not suffered in the same 
manner could credit the anxiety which Ermine 
has been to me from her childhood. She cer- 
tainly has the most unfortunately tenacious 
nature I have ever known. To think that, af- 
ter all these years, she should still cling to 
that disagreeable guardian of hers, and this 
disreputable nephew of my husband’s, who 
was once kind to her in a careless, boyish 
fashion ! ” 

“ She would undergo torture and death 
for either of them,” said Madelon. “ Isn’t it 


16 


EBB-TIDE. 


remarkable ? One would think that dresses, 
and admirers, and all that sort of thing, would 
not leave her any spare time or spare thought 
to waste on such subjects. Do you know,” 
pursued the young lady, “ I don’t think Ermine 
is exactly like other people. Aunt Victorine ? 
She is so very queer — queerer, by far, than 
you know — that she always seems to me like 
one of the people who are said to be marked 
out for uncommon uses — tragedy, passion, de- 
spair, and all that sort of thing.” 

“ I beg you won’t put any such romantic 
nonsense into her head,” said Mrs. Erie, coldly. 
“ She sadly lacks common-sense now.” 

“/put romantic nonsense into anybody’s 
head ? ” said Madelon. “ That would be a 
Saul among the prophets indeed ! But I 
think you will find an abundance of it in Er- 
mine’s brain without any assistance from me.” 

“ She told me yesterday that as soon as 
she is of age she means to go to Germany and 
study art,” said Margaret, in exactly the same 
tone she might have employed to announce an 
intention to go to the penitentiary and break 
stones. 

“ She is hopelessly absurd,” said Mrs. 
Erie, with a sigh, “ and I really think her 
guardian is accountable for a great deal of 
it.” 

“ As for her painting,” said Madelon, who 
seemed rather inclined to take the part of dev- 
il’s advocate, “ I don’t see that it does much 
harm to any thing except her dresses. I sup- 
pose you know that she has ruined her pretty 
blue organdie with paint-stains, by-the-way ? ” 

“ Her affection for her guardian is the 
most incomprehensible thing to me,” said Mrs. 
Erie, whose mind naturally ran on the griev- 
ance which was most a grievance to her. “ He 
is really the most disagreeable old man I ever 
knew. I often wonder what induced my hus- 
band to choose such a person — but the ways 
of husbands are incomprehensible. If he meant 
to leave me a posthumous annoyance, he could 
not have done so more completely; for the 
trouble Colonel Vivieux has caused me about 
Ermine’s fortune and Ermine’s self is almost 
beyond belief.” 

“ What a charming thing it is, to be sure, 
when one has no fortune to necessitate a guar- 
dian, and prove a source of trouble to one’s 
friends 1 ” said Madelon. “ For these and all 
other mercies, let us thank Providence ! — 
Come, Margaret — if you mean to lie there all 
day, /must go down-street.” 


“ Margaret is going to stay at home,” said 
Mrs. Erie. ^ I specially request it.” 

“ Indeed, mamma, I am not,” said Marga- 
ret. “ I — I don’t care a straw about seeing 
Mr. Saxton.” 

“ But you do care about showing your 
pretty face on King Street, don’t you ? ” said 
Madelon, laughing. “ One admirer at home is 
certainly not to be compared to fifty a aroad.” 

“ Madelon, I wish you would let me alone ! ” 
cried Margaret, wrathfully. “ I have to go 
and see the dress-maker about my green silk ; 
you know I can’t trust you to do it.” 

“ Quite right, too, my dear, for I might 
order a flounce additional, or a ruffle less, 
which would break your heart,” said Madelon. 

“ I shall order the carriage, and drive with 
you to see about the dress, after Mr. Saxton’s 
call,” said Mrs. Erie, who knew that, if it came 
to the point of the green silk, concession was 
absolutely necessary. “ That will be better 
than walking in the hot sun. We will see, 
too, about the point-lace cape you have set 
your heart on, but ” — as Margaret’s turquoise 
eyes began to gleam with pleasure — “ I must 
really insist on your changing that wrapper 
for a dress in which you can properly receive 
Mr. Saxton.” 

After a few remonstrances, Margaret yield 
ed with a very bad grace, and retired to ef 
feet the desired change of toilet. Then Mrs, 
Erie leaned back and sighed wearily. 

“ What a happy day it will be to me when 
that girl is safely married ! ” she said. “ Noth- 
ing short of the point-lace bribe would have 
induced her to see this man ; and yet — ” She 
broke off abruptly here. “Madelon, if you 
are going down-street, I wish you would take 
Louise with you, and get her that pair of blue- 
kid gaiters which she is determined to have. 
I am tired of hearing her fret for them.” 

“ I saw Nathalie with Louise and Regy on 
the Battery,” said Madelon. “ If I meet them, 
I will take la petite with me. Pauvre tante^' 
added the girl, half compassionately, half 
mockingly ; “ even Louise, at the mature age 
of nine, begins to worry you. I really believe 
I am the only consolation you have ! ” 

“You certainly give me the least trouble 
of any,” said Mrs. Erie, kissing the ripe, scar- 
let lips that bent over her. 

Yet, after Madelon left the room, and the 
hall-door closed on her, the speaker shook her 
head. 

“ The time for it has not come quite yet,” 


MADELON GIVES ADVICE. 


17 


she said, addressing a royal lily placed in a 
tall, Slender vase before her ; but I should not 
be surprised if the trouble she gave in the end 
was the worst trouble of all.” 

dust then a peal of the door-bell echoed 
through the house, and the lady made haste 
to smooth her face in readiness for the visitor 
whom it heralded. “ Show Mr. Saxton in, 
John,” she said, as a servant entered with a 
card, “ and ‘ not at home ’ to any one else 
while he is here.” 

After all, is it worth while to envy the 
charming chdtelaine her beautiful house — 

“ With its porcelain and pictures and flowers,” 

or would not “ a dinner of herbs,” where love 
abounded, and scheming was unknown, be 
rather preferable ? 


CHAPTER III. 

MADELON GIVES ADVICE. 

The soft, fragrant May dusk has fallen 
over the blooming land and the shining 
waters, the divine glory of the western sky 
has faded away, and only a faint glow lingers 
over the broad rivers, the calm harbor, the 
glittering spires of the city, and the great, 
distant, placid ocean. The afternoon throng, 
which makes the Battery for eight months in 
the year one of the most charming pleasure- 
resorts in the country, has gradually dispersed 
and gone its way, to gather round countless 
tea-tables, and discuss all the choice bits of 
news, social and political, which “ fly about in 
the sunshine like gay little motes,” at any 
such popular and universal lounging-place — a 
place where one can see the whole heau- 
monde on dress-parade, for the mere trouble 
of sauntering to and fro in the bright sun- 
shine, with the water sending soft tones of 
music into one’s ear, the fresh sea-breeze 
bringing fresh color into one’s face, the lovely 
panorama of sea and shore spread before 
one’s eyes — the purple islands, the distant 
forts, the broad expanse of sparkling water, 
the whole perfect picture, in front of which, 

“ — as though sprung from the waves she has cleft. 
Grim Sumter frowns out o'er the sea.” 

It was at just that witching hour of the 
twenty-four when a mantle of twilight, edged 
with the silvery lustre of a new moon and 
2 


countless flittering stars, falls over the fair 
scene, that Madelon Lautrec, parting with one 
or two gay companions at the door of her 
aunt’s house, entered and ran through the 
brilliantly-lighted hall straight up-stairs. She 
did not pause at the door of her own chamber, 
but passed on and knocked at that of Erniiue, 
which adjoined it. 

“ Come in,” said a clear voice ; and, when 
the door opened, a rush of light came out on 
the dark corridor, disclosing a room like a sea- 
cave, all green and white, with long, swinging 
mirrors, and a dainty, spotless, canopied bed. 
Before one of these mirrors Ermine stood, 
p^itting the finishing touch to her toilet, in 
the shape of a lovely, half-blown rose, which 
nestled among its rich green leaves against the 
glossy plaits of her dark hair. 

“ You have come for Lena, haven’t you ? ” 
she said, turning round with a smile, as her 
cousin entered. “ You ought to have been 
five minutes earlier — Margaret has just sent 
to ask for her, and, as I had finished dressing, 
I let her go.” 

“ Margaret is unconscionably selfish,” said 
Madelon, in a pet. “ Why cannot she be con- 
tent with her own maid ? If I had a maid, I 
am sure I should teach her to do her work, 
and not have to beg the loan of somebody 
else’s all the time. Au diable ! Don’t look so 
shocked, my dear ; it isn’t half as bad as to 
say, ‘ Go to the devil ! ’ in English — and quite 
as gratifying to the feelings. I hope Lena 
will do her hair execrably — that would be 
only poetical justice ! But, meanwhile, who is 
to do mine ? ” 

“ For the concert, do you mean ? ” 

“Yes,’ of course for the concert. Do you 
know, by-the-way, that Aunt Victorine has so 
far departed from her usual rule, that I am to 
be allowed to go with Major Hastings ? ” 

“ Madelon ! Impossible ! ” 

“ Ma foi^ but it is possible ! You can’t be 
more surprised than I was — for five minutes. 
Major Hastings being a new acquaintance, of 
course did not know Aunt Victorine’s inflexi- 
ble chaperon rule, so he asked me this after- 
noon if I would not allow him the honor of 
escorting me ; and, more for amusement than 
any thing else, I referred the matter to Ma- 
dame ma tante^ and she said — yes. For five 
minutes, as I remarked before, you could have 
knocked me down with a feather.” 

“ And then ? ” . 

“ Hum ! Well, then I remembered one or 


18 


EBB-TIDE. 


two things, and my surprise abated — very 
quickly and very decidedly.” 

“ But what were the little things ? ” cried 
Ermine, impatiently. “ Mamma, who is al- 
ways so very particular, so very French in her 
ideas, who never lets us go with anybody but 
Kaymond ! — what is the meaning of it, Made- 
Ion ? ” 

“ Set your wits to work and guess, my 
dear.” 

“ Is Major Hastings rich, and does she 
mean you to make a mariage de convenance^ 
after the model of — well, no matter who ? ” 

“ I have not the faintest idea whether he 
is next door to a beggar, or a millionnaire ; 
but ma tarde is no vulgar match-maker. If he 
were a Rothschild, she would not break her 
rules without better reason for it than that. 
Guess again. Ermine.” 

“ I — I can’t. Tell me.” 

“ Will you do my hair for me, if I tell 
you ? ” 

“Yes,” cried Ermine, with reckless im- 
patience. “ Of course I will — only you must 
sit down at once, for it is getting late, and you 
know Raymond is always dreadfully impa- 
tient.” 

“ Let him learn to wait, then — somebody 
says that is Nature’s noblest effort, and it is 
certainly the one that would do Raymond 
most good. Here I am, however — all ready.” 

She took off her hat, shook out her hair — 
of which she had a magnificent suit, barring 
that it was not remarkably silky in texture — 
and sat down in a low chair before the toilet- 
table and the large mirror which reflected the 
room with its hangings of pale sea-green, and 
made a picture of the two girls in all the win- 
ning grace of their youth and beauty. 

“Now,” said Ermine, as she gathered up 
the heavy locks in both hands, and began 
with deft fingers to do the work of the maid 
who was just then arranging Miss Erie’s 
golden tresses, while another maid stood by 
and looked admiringly on — “ now you are in 
my power — tell me at once, or I shall have no 
mercy on you.” 

“ You are horribly stupid to need to be 
told,” said Madelon, with complimentary can- 
dor. “ Don’t you see that, as usual, the Al- 
pha and Omega of the whole thing is Ray- 
mond ? ” 

“ I am stupid, I suppose,” said Ermine, 
humbly ; “ but I don’t see it at all. What 
has Raymond to do with Major Hastings ? ” 


“ Bah ! ” It was the most signific''*'t 
interjection in the world. “ Ermine, I am 
ashamed of you ! Listen, then — and be en- 
lightened. Don’t you know that Margaret is 
to be sent to the concert with Mr, Saxton as a 
convenient mode of informing the world in 
general that the engagement is an accom- 
plished fact, and of bringing Margaret to 
terms through the medium of public opin- 
ion ? ” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“ Thep, don’t you see — Take care ! you 
are braiding my hair unevenly. Perhaps 1 
had better defer this interesting conversation 
nntil you have finished.” 

“No, no — pray go on. I will be more 
careful.” 

“ Well, then, as I was remarking, don’t 
you see that it is of course highly desirable 
that such a good opportunity should not be 
lost for throwing you and Raymond together ? 
— Good Heavens ! Ermine, don’t pull my hair 
so dreadfully ! My head is not made of India- 
rubber or wood, and I really can’t stand it.” 

“I beg your pardon — I did not mean — 
Madelon, if I thought you were right, I would 
not go to the concert for any consideration.” 

“Nonsense!” said Madelon, who, seeing 
her cousin’s excitement, began to be appre- 
hensive about the effect on her coiffure. 
“ Nonsense, Ermine — don’t w^e always go 
with Raymond? Nobody is likely to think 
of you what they will be certain to think of 
Margaret and Mr. Saxton. It is simply that 
Aunt Victorine likes to give him an oppor- 
tunity to glide into the lover, which would be 
rather difiScult if I played the agreeable part 
of Mademoiselle De Trop.” 

“ He would not dare,” said Ermine, indig- 
nantly. “ He knows that I know how long 
he has been in love with Margaret.” 

“ In love with Margaret ! ” repeated Made- 
lon, scornfully. “ My dear, Raymond is in 
love Avith nobody but himself and his own in- 
terest. Aunt Victorine would not thank me 
for saying so, but it is a fact. Of course, w^e 
all know that Margaret is in love with him ; 
but I don’t believe he has been any thing but 
tired of her this long while.” 

“ Madelon, you see so much you frighten 
me 1 How do you find all this out ? ” 

“ Simply by using the few wits Avhich Na- 
ture gave me to atone for her shabby conduct 
in other respects. Ermine” — the girl’s light 
tone suddenly changed into so much of grave 


MADELON GIVES ADVICE. 


19 


earaestness, that Ermine stopped short and 
stood in a tragic-muse attitude, armed and 
equipped with an ivory-backed brush — “ why 
don’t you make up your mind to marry Ray- 
mond ? You will have to do it sooner or 
later, and why not at once ? ” 

“ Madelon, what do you mean ? ” 

“ I think it is very evident what I mean,” 
said Madelon, pushing back the masses of 
hair which overhung her face, and looking up 
at her cousin in the mirror, with eyes like 
those of a sibyl, “ Aunt Victorine and Mr, 
Erie have made up their minds that you are 
to marry Raymond — Raymond himself has 
made up his mind to the same thing ; so I 
don’t see that there is much for you to do but 
submit.” 

“You know me no better than they do, 
Madelon, if you think so.” 

“ I know you a great deal better, my 
dear,” said Madelon, quietly, “ and that is 
the only reason I have taken the trouble to 
speak to you. I know that you will make a 
death-fight, but I know, also, that in the end 
you will be obliged to succumb.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Shall I tell you why ? ” 

“Yes, tell me — I should like to know 
what reason you could possibly have for such 
an assertion.” 

“ My reason is simply this : I am sure that 
the possession of your fortune is a matter of 
financial life and death to the Erles. It is 
their last card ; and you can judge for your- 
self whether they are likely to allow your 
fancy to stand in the way of their playing 
it.” 

“ Do you mean that Mr. Erie is threatened 
with danger or embarrassment in his busi- 
ness ? ” 

“ Hush ! for Heaven’s sake, speak lower ! 
I mean that I would be willing to stake my 
existence that he is on the brink of absolute 
failure. Don’t ask me how I know it. You 
could not understand if I were to tell you, for 
I have ways and means of information which 
would seem to you trifling and unimportant. 
Only be sure it is a fact. Ermine, you were 
an heiress when your father died : ever since 
then your fortune has been in the hands of 
the best business man in Martinique, so you 
can imagine whether or not it is worth Mr. 
Erie’s while to hazard a great deal for it 

now ” 

• if I were of age I would give it to him,” 


said Ermine, passionately ; “ but I will never, 
never marry Raymond.” 

“ And yet, you absurd child, that is the 
only way in which you can give it to hiia 
What would your husband, when you marry, 
say to your having quixotically bestowed your 
fortune on your step-father ? What would 
the world say of Mr. Erie if he accepted it ^ 
Where is the hardship of marrying Raymond 
after all ? ” the girl went on, with her cold, 
trenchant cynicism. “ Isn’t he handsome ? — 
isn’t he clever ? — isn’t he sure to surround 
you with comfort and luxury all your life ? 
Mon Dim ! Think of the men some women 
are obliged to marry — think of Mr. Saxton, 
for example I ” 

“ But why should I think of them ? No- 
body can oblige me to marry Raymond.” 

“ Nobody can shut you up on bread-and- 
water, or use any romantic mode of compul- 
sion, I grant you ; but other means are some- 
times quite as effective. Sooner or later, you 
will have to do it. Therefore, why not do it 
at once ? ” 

Ermine drew herself up haughtily. Just 
then she looked like a young princess. 

“ You seem to think I am a child, Made- 
lon, to be frightened by vague threats,” she 
said. “ I will not have to do it sooner or later. 
Nothing shall ever make me marry him. If 
mamma requested you to speak to me, you 
can tell her that.” 

“Aunt Victorine has never mentioned 
the subject to me,” answered Madelon. “ I 
spoke of my own accord, because I was fool- 
ish enough to wish to do you a service. You 
have always been kind to me, and, if I have a 
soft spot in my heart for anybody — a fact, by- 
the-way, which I sometimes doubt — it is for 
you. Ermine. However, it is all very useless, 
I perceive ; and my hair is being sadly neg- 
lected. It must be late. I stayed out longer 
than I meant to do, but the Battery was 
charming this afternoon. What were you 
doing with yourself ? ” 

“ I was painting,” said Ermine, with some- 
thing — a soft sort of mystical light — in her 
eyes. “ Colors are like opium to me — I for- 
get every thing disagreeable or painful when I 
am with them. Sometimes I think I am color- 
mad. Every thing in the world — no matter 
how purely abstract — has a tint to me. I 
never hear a strain of music that it does not 
suggest a color or a shade of color. This 
afternoon I have been working at ray sea- 


20 


EBB-TIDE. 


piece with such energ} that it is almost fin- 
ished. Madelon, shall I show it to you ? ” 

“ It is not much in my line,” said Made- 
Ion ; “ but still — if it will not inconvenience 
you — ” 

“ It is just here,” said Ermine. 

She laid down the brush, which Madelon 
regretfully took up and began using, and 
passed into a small room adjoining her cham- 
ber — originally a dressing-room, at present a 
studio. From this she reappeared, after a 
moment, bearing a small canvas — in dimen- 
sion not more than twenty-four by eighteen 
inches — which she held in her white, out- 
stretched arms before Madelon. 

The bright lamplight quivered softly on 
the clear, transparent tints — tints so exquisite 
that only an artist’s soul could have felt them 
— and, turning, Madelon took in at a glance 
the design of the picture. The sea — no shore, 
no rocks, no suggestion of distant land — but 
such a sea that it was simply a marvel how a 
tyro’s hand could have painted its divine, per- 
fect, eternal, yet ever-changing loveliness ! A 
great, blue, waveless southern ocean, spread 
out in lustrous calm beneath a sky like a 
dream of heaven — stretching away, as it 
seemed, to infinite distance, and melting at 
the horizon into the translucent sapphire of 
the great vault of ether, until it was impossi- 
ble to tell where the water ended or the sky 
began. And in all the wide world of space, 
one object alone visible — a single, shattered 
spar, to which was lashed the slender figure of 
a woman with white, motionless face, upturned 
toward that distant, serene heaven whence 
cometh sometimes hope, and sometimes, again, 
despair. The sea had done its work. No 
gleam of life would ever again come to those 
sculptured features, nor would any living hands 
ever lay that fair form away, into the kind 
embrace of Mother Earth. What the sea 
possessed, the sea would keep, and the placid 
water seemed idly toying with the rounded 
limbs and floating hair, as if exulting in its 
power, and gilding, with a bright, treacherous 
smile, the destruction which it had worked. 
With all its faults — and faults, of course, were 
many — there was a fascination about the pict- 
ure which must have arrested any eye, and 
held, for a time at least, any attention spell- 
bound. A stranger could scarcely have be- 
lieved that this beautiful conception was from 
the hand of a girl of twenty, whose art-train- 
ing had been of that entirely amateur kind 


I which is bestowed upon young ladies who 
have a weakness for spoiling canvas and wast- 
ing paint. There was none of that weak pret- 
tiness which usually damns even the best of 
such efforts ; the very faults of the piece were 
faults of power, and there was a dramatic in- 
tensity about the whole scene which proved — 
more conclusively even than the wonderful 
coloring — the God-given power of the born 
artist. 

Such as it was, it startled even Madelon 
into forgetfulness of her yet undressed hair 
and probably waiting escort. 

“ Ermine,” she cried, “ it is wonderful ! — it 
is beautiful ! It is the best thing by far you 
ever did ! I have no fancy for such work, you 
know, but, if it strikes we, it must be worth 
something ! ” Then, after a moment’s pause, 
“ Oh, why did not God give me such a talent ? 
It might have saved me, perhaps — it might 
have made something of me ! But you — what 
need have you to labor like this ? ” 

“ You might as well ask me what need I 
have to breathe,” said Ermine, placing the 
canvas on a chair, and kneeling before it like 
a reverential worshipper at a shrine. “ I love, 
it ! — I love it ! I ask for nothing, hope for 
nothing, desire nothing, when I am at my 
paints. 0 Madelon, I would give every thing 
in this world — except my guardian and Alan 
— to be an artist.” 

“And can’t you be one? You are rich 
enough to do any thing you please, I am 
sure.” 

“ But I want to give my life to it — to 
study, to work, not to be merely an eccentric 
young lady who dabbles in oils when she has 
no engagement to ride, or drive, or walk, or 
talk. I want to go to one of those delightful 
art-schools, to learn to paint as well as woman 
can learn, and then to live in Rome, in some 
pleasant studio with plenty of pictures, and 
only a crust of bread, perhaps — but I should 
eat it with such a light heart.” 

“ Vraiment ! how easy it is to be romantic 
when one is rich ! ” said Madelon, in a tone of 
overwhelming scorn. 

Yet it was a subject more fit for sadness 
than for scorn — this fair young creature, en- 
dowed with all earth’s brightest gifts, longing 
to shake them off and give heart and soul to 
the service of that divine Beauty which is 
known to us through Art. Ah me ! is it not 
ever so? Was any existence ever so bright 
that discontent had no place in it? Was any 


MADELON GIVES ADVICE. 


21 


human soul ever without these strange long- 
ings for another life than that which God has 
given ? Was any heart ever so happy that it 
has not beat against its cage, yearning for bet- 
ter wings and wider flight? Was any glance 
ever so sunny that it did not turn from the 
brightness around it, to gaze wistfully toward 
some distant spot of happier light ? Even if 
such natures were, who could envy them? Is- 
it not better to dash hopelessly against the 
bars, than to sink down on the floor of some 
dreary prison and believe that its walls bound 
the world ? 

“ But my hair,” said Madelon, coming back 
to present reality. “ Are you, or are you not, 
going to finish it. Ermine ? ” 

“ Of course I am,” said Ermine, rising to 
her feet. 

But at this moment a pleasant-faced, bright- 
eyed maid entered the room, whom Madelon 
greeted with enthusiasm. 

“ Thanks to kind Fate, here comes Lena ! ” 
she said. “ Now, perhaps, I may hope to go 
to the concert to-night. Ermine, pray don’t 
let me detain you any longer. — Has Margaret 
gone down, Lena ? ” 

“ Just this minute. Miss Madelon.” 

“ I suppose she looks as pretty as ever ? ” 

“ Oh, yes’m, she looks very pretty, but ” 
(a slight, insignificant hesitation here) “ she 
was mighty hard to suit to-night. I’d have 
been here before. Miss Madelon, but for that.” 

“ Hum ! ” said Madelon, grimly, “ I can 
imagine it. Being an angel to one’s lover and 
an angel to one’s maid are quite different 
things. Come, though, Lena, and make up 
for lost time now.” 

The maid fell skilfully to work on the rich 
masses of hair, and — after tenderly conveying 
her painting back to its easel — Ermine left the 
room. As she descended the staircase, a 
latch-key rattled in the front-door, and, as her 
foot was on the last step, a gentleman entered 
the hall, whom she met under the chandelier, 
and with whom she exchanged a greeting. 

“ Why, good-evening, papa ! I thought I 
was late, but it seems I must be early, since 
you have just come in.” 

“ Good-evening, petite, said “ papa,” with 
a smile. “ You are right in your thoughts. 
It is late — that is, late for me. What are you 
looking so radiant about ? Another party to- 
night ? ” 

“ Oh, no — the concert. Is it possible you 
have forgotten the concert ? ” 


“ Indeed, I am sorry to say it is possible,” 
answered he, with a smile. 

When he smiled, Mr. Erie positively did 
not look more than twenty-five ; and, whether 
he smiled, or whether his face was as grave as 
it could occasionally appear, he was in either 
case a remarkably handsome man — a man 
whose good looks were of that delicate blond 
order which preserves the appearance of youth 
longer than any other. As he stood for a mo- 
ment, speaking to his step-daughter, with the 
light of the chandelier streaming over his 
chiselled features, his clear complexion, his 
rich, fair curls, and violet eyes, he looked as 
if he might have rivalled the lovely Margaret 
herself, if Nature had only given him the right 
to wear soft green silk and delicate point- 
lace. It was only on scanning the face more 
closely that you saw a few insignificant lines 
about the eyes and mouth, which told the 
story of years and of passions. The man had 
“lived” every day of his life — with all his 
beautiful maiire appearance, you were sure 
of that as soon as you marked the face more 
closely, and, although Nature or habit had pro- 
vided him with a very convenient and very be- 
coming waxen mask, which he wore on most oc- 
casions, the inner and more passionate self 
sometimes broke through and left its traces 
behind it. 

“ I suppose Raymond is here ? ” Mr. Erie 
went on. “ He left the office very early this af- 
ternoon, and I have not heard of him since. I 
should not have been so late, if his absence 
had not thrown several important letters on 
my hands. I wonder if he will have the grace 
to blush at sight of me ? ” 

“ If so, you will have to teach him how,” 
said Ermine, smiling. “ I am sure he has not 
been guilty of such an indiscretion since he 
was five years old.” 

“ He shall answer for himself,” said Mr. 
Erie, drawing her hand under his arm. 

Mr. Erie was a model of a step-father, every- 
body said ; so nobody was surprised when he 
and Ermine entered the sitting-room in this con- 
fidential fashion. The light evening meal was 
served on a small round table, among lights and 
flowers, at which Mrs. Erie and Mr. Saxton alone 
were sitting. The latter had evidently just ar- 
rived, and while he drank a cup of scalding cof- 
fee (which had the becoming effect of throwing 
him into a profuse perspiration), having de- 
clined the iced tea which Mrs. Erie herself 
was sipping, he watched alternately his lemon 


22 


EBB-TIDE. 


colored gloves — on which some drops of the 
dark beverage had already fallen — and his 
lady-love, who sat by one of the open windows 
overlooking the garden. 

As a matter of personal comfort, Miss Erie 
would have preferred her usual downy nest 
among the cushions of the couch, but, whatever 
her shortcomings in other respects, she always 
knew better than to allow her dress and sur- 
roundings to “ swear at each other,” as the 
French expressively have it. An instinct — 
the artistic instinct which seems born in some 
women to whom art itself is a dead letter — 
always served to guide her right ; and, being 
“ cast ” for Sabrina to night, in sea-green silk, 
and misty lace, and coral ornaments, she kept 
very clear indeed of the blue background of 
the couch. Leaning over the back of her 
chair, and half concealed in the shade of the 
curtains, was a young man who raised his face 
as Ermine entered, disclosing the features of 
the Raymond of w’hom we have already heard 
so much, and of whom, fortune favoring, we 
shall hereafter hear still more. 

Like every other member of the family, 
Mr. Raymond Erie was handsome. People 
often marvelled over the chance which had 
brought so many remarkably good-looking 
people together in this household. “ W e have 
not a single plain face among us,” Madelon often 
said, exultingly ; and it was quite true. Once 
gathered together, the entire Erie clan and the 
pretty creole cousins, they formed a rare gal- 
axy of masculine and feminine beauty, com- 
prising several widely dissimilar types. Ray- 
mond, for example, was, in appearance, a law 
unto himself : that is, he did not resemble any 
other known Erie, least of all his uncle. It is 
tolerably hard to photograph him in the few 
words which are all that custom allows to a 
“description,” and yet the attempt must be 
made ; for, to leave his appearance merely to 
conjecture, would be to do tha+ appearance a 
grievous injustice. The “ medium height ” is 
such a very indefinite phrase, and varies so 
much according to the physical standard of 
different localities (a tall man on the seaboard, 
for instance, being quite a pigmy among stal- 
wart mountaineers), that it may be well to 
state positively that he was in height just five 
feet nine and a quarter inches. His weight 
was not so certain, but it could not have been 
very considerable, for his figure was slender 
even to fragility — though not without certain 
signs of muscular strength which a practised 


eye would have recognized at once. There 
was an elegance about this figure, a je ne sais 
quoi of well-bred style, which rendered Mr. 
Raymond Erie a marked man in any assem- 
blage, and his picturesque face certainly did 
him good service in whatever society the ca- 
price of Fortune saw fit to cast him. A singu- 
larly handsome face it was — with an olive-pale 
complexion, faultless features, raven hair, 
heavy mustache, eyebrows pencilled like a 
Circassian’s, and large, dark eye^s, full of vel- 
vety softness which no one could mistake for 
gentleness — yet, withal, not in the least a face 
which could be styled effeminate. On the 
contrary, men felt instinctively that its owner 
was not to be trified with ; that this keen, fear- 
less, determined face indicated a nature ready 
to meet any emergencies, and not likely to re- 
gard any obstacles to a desired end. Not 
always, nor altogether, a pleasant face ; but a 
face with an attraction which '^it was impos- 
sible to deny, and sometimes very hard to 
resist. 

The two cousins made such a lover-like 
tableau, ensconced in the shade of the window- 
curtains, with the fragrant night, all glittering 
stars and silent fiowers, beyond, that Mr. Sax- 
ton’s wandering, jealous glances were scarcely 
remarkable ; yet Raymond’s face, when he raised 
it, wore any thing but a lover-like expression. 
It would be hard indeed to imagine a more 
angry countenance. The dark-red flush which 
suffused the usually pale complexion, the knit- 
ted brows, and compressed lips, were all such 
unmistakable signs of deep and bitter vexation 
that even Ermine, usually well acquainted with 
the amenities of the household, was surprised. 
At sight of her, however, the lowering features 
quickly smoothed themselves, and a smiling 
cavalier came forward. 

“ Don’t you think we had better be in 
haste. Ermine ? ” he asked, after they had 
bidden each other good-evening. “ It is never 
good style to be late at a concert ; and then I 
know you w'ould not like to miss the overture 
to the ‘ Midsummer-Night’s Dream,’ which is 
first on the programme.” 

“ Mayn’t I eat a w^afer and take some tea 
first ? ” asked Ermine, looking up at him with 
eyes in which there was something of the 
gleaming yet transparent lustre that water 
shows under a starlit sky. “ Surely there is 
time enough for that ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, time enough for that ; indeed, I 
will bear you company as far as regards the 


MADELON GIVES ADVICE. 


23 


tea. It is a wonderful stimulant, and may 
serve to keep me awake.” 

“ Awake, when you are going to hear the 
best orchestra and the finest cantatrice in the 
country ! ” said Ermine, with the marvelling 
scorn which he had meant to provoke. 

They sat down, however, in very compan- 
ionable fashion to their iced tea, and wafers 
so light that a puff of wind would have blown 
them otf the table. Mr. Saxton, seeing his 
opportunity, finished his cup of coSee at a 
draught, made a half-muttered apology to his 
hostess, rose in a steam, and betook himself 
and his lemon-colored gloves over to where his 
“ goddess of the silver lake ” was sitting. 

“ Bah, what a porpoise ! ” said Raymond, 
in a low voice, watching him with disdainful 
eyes. 

“ At least he is not a ‘ laggard in love,’ ” 
said Ermine, smiling. “ See how eagerly he 
goes, though Margaret does not look particu- 
larly gracious by any means.” 

“ Who can blame her ? ” asked Mr. Ray- 
mond, magnificently ; in fancy, he could not 
avoid contrasting his own appearance with 
that of the rival to whom he had surrendered 
the fair field of his cousin’s affections. “ It 
cei*tainly requires all his wealth to gild the 
fellow’s mere appearance. By Jove ! he looks 
almost as rough as a sea-captain ! ” 

Ominous comparison ! Whether innocent 
or not, who can say ? At all events, at the 
mere sound of those two words. Ermine’s ever- 
ready color flashed into her face, and she 
turned upon the speaker with startling impet- 
uosity. 

“ I should think you would grow tired of 
that sort of sneers, Raymond,” she said ; “ es- 
pecially when you know that there are many 
sea-captains who are as polished gentlemen 
as — as you are ! ” 

“ Many, my dear Ermine, or only one ? ” 
asked Raymond, with a smile which nobody 
could possibly have fancied genial. 

“ There may be many, for aught I know ; 
that there is one, I do know,” she answered, 
quickly. 

“ Granting even that, does one swallow 
make a summer ? or, because a gentleman 
chooses to lower himself to the rank of a cer- 
tain class of people, does he thereby lift his 
new associates to the grade which he has for- 
feited ? ” 

“ Raymond,” said the girl, quickly, “ I 
don’t want to hear any more ! You never 


lose any opportunity to scoff at Alan and 
Alan’s profession, and there is no good in an- 
swering you. Only,” with sarcasm almost as 
trenchant as Madelon’s, “ I should like to 
know why it is any more lowering to a gentle- 
man to trade on sea than to trade on land ? ” 

“ Ermine, you forget yourself,” said her 
mother, sternly. 

“ Oh, let la petite talk ! ” said Mr. Erie, indul- 
gently. “Words hurt nobody except poor 
Raymond, who must look after himself ; and the 
heiress of half the island of Martinique can 
afford to regard with scorn a mere commission- 
merchant.” 

Poor Ermine ! Almost any one might 
have felt sorry for her just then, that burning 
flush dyed her white cheek so hotly and pain- 
fully once more. 

“I — I did not mean that,” she said, quickly. 
“ Papa, I beg your pardon. I did not intend 
any thing disrespectful to your tra — that is, 
profession. Only Raymond might let Alan 
alone ! ” 

“ To the best of my knowledge, I have not 
mentioned Alan from first to last,” said Ray- 
mond, in the most injured tone imaginable. 
“ This is a sample of the way you always treat 
me. Ermine. I cannot make the most inci- 
dental or general remark, but you accuse me 
of a particular intention to sneer. I am heart- 
ily ashamed of Alan and Alan’s profession,” 
said the young man, with energy ; “ but he 
chose it with his eyes open, and that is an end 
of the matter.” 

“ I only wish it was an end of the matter,” 
said Mr, Erie, in a resigned tone. “ But unfor- 
tunately Ermine’s friendship is of such an en- 
thusiastic nature that Alan and Alan’s affairs 
seem to me to furnish the staple seasoning of 
our life.” 

“ There is certainly no need to inform the 
world that one of our near connections com- 
mands a trading- vessel,” said Mrs. Erie, in her 
dignified voice, “ yet I heard Ermine tell Gen- 
eral Borne the other day that her ‘ cousin ’ was 
not in the navy, but in the merchant service.” 

“ I did not say so, mamma, because the mer- 
chant service is more creditable than the navy, 
but because it is a fact.” 

“ It is not always necessary to proclaim 
facts,” said Mr. Erie. “ That idea, my dear 
Ermine, is your greatest error.” 

“ I hope it will remain my error a long time, 
then,” said Ermine ungratefully. “ And as for 
Alan, the rest of you may be ashamed of him, 


24 


EBB-TIDE. 


if you like, but I am proud of him — prouder 
than I ever was of anybody else in my life.” 

“ You can afford to indulge those fine 
sentiments, since he is no relation of yours, 
and does not disgrace you in the least,” said 
Baymond, shying scraps of wafer at a pet-dog 
belonging to one of the children, who caught 
them eagerly, and found them exceedingly un- 
satisfactory morsels. 

“ As far as that is concerned, you know I 
consider him my cousin as much as Margaret 
does.” 

“ By brevet appointment, I presume — yet 
/ cannot claim a kinsman’s most distant privi- 
lege without incurring rebuke.” 

“ My dear boy, there are Erles and Erles,” 
said his uncle, smiling benignly. “ You are a 
commission-merchant, and Alan is a sea-cap- 
tain — the distinction makes the difference.” 

“ I am inclined to think there is another 
distinction which makes another difference,” 
said Raymond, meaningly — ^then he leaned back 
in his chair and watched Ermine, with a glance 
which she felt though she did not see, as Mr. 
Erie left the table and walked across the 
room, followed by his wife. “ There is an- 
other distinction — is there not. Ermine ? ” he 
asked after a while in a quick, low voice, in- 
audible at five paces off. 

“ Yes,” answered the girl, glancing np at 
him with fearless candor. “ There is another 
distinction — and you know what it is, Ray- 
mond.” 

“ What is it. Ermine ? ” 

“ It is that Alan is open and true as the 
day,” she answered, in the same tone. “ It is 
that there is no more narrowness in his heart, 
than there is pettiness in his soul; that he 
could no more shackle himself with the bond- 
•age of worldly opinion than he could stoop to 
a mean action ; and that God gave him so gen- 
erous a spirit, so fine a nature, that, if he were 
a hod-carrier, he would still be a gentleman.” 

The young man looked intently into her 
glowing face. 

“ W ell,” he said, dryly, “ now for the com- 
panion-sketch — the reverse-picture.” 

“ You have heard that often enough, Ray- 
mond.” 

“ Yes,” he said, with a faint, bitter laugh, 
“ I have certainly heard often enough — perhaps 
a little too often — all the bad qualities with 
which you are pleased to endow me. I should 
be worse than lago if I possessed half of them. 
Ermine.” 


“ I can only hope that you don’t possess 
any of them, then, Raymond.” 

“ Do you never mean to do me any jus- 
tice ? ” he asked, with a certain subdued vehe- 
mence of manner. 

She looked up at him with a quick flash in 
her eye. 

“Set me an example, by doing Alan jus- 
tice,” she said, curtly. 

The dialogue has reached rather an exciting 
point. Both their faces are flushed, and their 
eyes glowing, as Madelon enters the room and 
takes in the situation at a glance. As she 
crosses the floor, Raymond bends down and 
says hurriedly, but in a concentrated sort of 
voice : 

“ By Heaven, Ermine, instead of teaching 
me to do Alan justice, you are teaching me to 
hate him as fast as one man can learn to hate 
another ! ” 

Then before Ermine — startled and angry — 
can reply, he has risen and walked away. 

“ May I have a cup of cofiee ? ” said Made- 
Ion, coming to the table. “ There goes that 
horrid door-bell — Major Hastings, of course ! 
— Ermine, how does my hair look ? You are 
lovely, my dear — and what a color ! You 
ought to get Raymond to talk to you whenever 
you are going out. Pie leaves such a charm- 
ing bloom behind him.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

UNDER THE STARLIGHT. 

The orchestra is pealing away at the fairy 
scherzo of the overture to the “ Midsummer- 
Night’s Dream ” — that pulse of joy which seems 
beating for all time — when Ermine and her 
escort file softly down the carpeted aisle of a 
crowded house, and are ushered to their seats 
among a decorously silent and well-bred au- 
dience. The color has not yet left the girl’s 
face — only it has ebbed from the lily-white 
cheeks to concentrate, as it were, in the vivid 
carnation of the lips, and brighten the soft, 
full-orbed lustre of the eyes — so that she never 
looked more lovely than she does just now, 
seeming, to the fancy of more than one among 
those who level glance or opera-glass upon 
her, like some fair, delicate, passion-hued trop- 
ical flower. 

“ That girl’s eyes always remind me of 
lotos-eating and floating down the Nile,” said 


UNDER THE STARLIGHT. 


25 


one poetically-inclined gentleman in a low 
aside to his companion. “ I suppose she and 
Erie are engaged ; but I can’t say I approve of 
the match. They are entirely too much alike. 
You’ve read ‘ Counterparts,’ haven’t you ? 
People of the same temperament should never 
marry.” 

“ Yes, I have read ‘ Counterparts,’ ” an- 
swered the companion, who chanced to be an 
unusually bright and clever girl ; “ but I don’t 
agree with you in thinking that Mr. Erie and 
Miss St. Amand are of the same temperament. 
One cannot go by the simple fact that they 
both have dark eyes, you know. I will wager 
you any thing you please, that, if you ask some- 
body who understands such things, he or she 
will tell you that, if not counternarts, they are 
at least totally unlike.” 

“ But how am I to find the somebody ? 
Who does understand such things ? ” 

“ Indeed, I don’t know. Temperament is 
a dead letter to most people, undoubtedly — ^but 
hush ! You must not talk while this heavenly 
music is going on ! ” 

It is heavenly indeed ; and Ermine is rapt 
in a trance better by far than the lotos-eat- 
ing of which her admirer has spoken — better 
than any thing else in the world save that di- 
vine beatitude coming from the pure love of 
the saints for God, of which this is no place to 
speak. Music — and of all music that which 
comes like a breath of fragrant incense from 
Mendelssohn’s heart — has led her into a palace 
of calm delights where none can follow to mo- 
lest her. The exquisite rise and fall of elfin 
melody, the very sound with which the bow 
first kisses the silver strings of the violin, 
stirs and soothes her at once. Other critical 
ears are there which listen and admire, as who 
could fail to admire that harmony which dies 
away “ like the sweet south wind over a bed 
of violets,” that perfect mechanism ; that su- 
perb orchestration, which Mendelssohn alone 
perfected as an art ; but, although they enjoy 
with intense appreciation, they are not borne 
away on the overflowing tide as Ermine is. 
She leans back quite silent, quite motionless, 
only her expanding eyes — which momently 
grow larger, fuller, and more lustrous — ^tell the 
story of her perfect beatitude. Who can say 
what dreams the music wakes, what visions 
which only a painter could conceive, or a poet 
describe, float through her brain on the golden 
tide of melody ? Into the fragile girl-form 
God had seen fit to infuse the true artist-soul 


— that soul which can enjoy more keenly, suf- 
fer more exquisitely, and live more wholly 
alone than any other which He, in His bound- 
less, fathomless wisdom has ever created. 
Form, color, sound, each and all have a differ- 
ent meaning to her from what they have to 
the mass of mankind. She feels them, as she 
feels joy and sorrow, in superlative degree. 
Those who follow the short record of her short 
life will do well to bear this in mind — well to 
remember that to such natures do not apply 
the cast-iron rules which govern the world at 
large. Wholly, sometimes fatally different 
fr-om all others, are they, and, seeing with sad 
eyes how cruelly their tender flesh is sometimes 
bruised by the sharp thorns of earth, we can 
only hope that compensation is given them by 
that serene Heaven whence pity as well as 
mercy ofttimes “droppeth like the gentle 
rain.” 

After the orchestral overture, the house 
broke into a tumult of that kid-glove applause 
which is so significant of what the newspapers 
call “ a select and fashionable audience ” — 
applause not meant for those soft, dying ca- 
dences, like fairy “ horns of Elfland blowing,” 
but for the graceful, girlish figure, the piquant 
girlish face which came before the foot-lights, 
the young singer — ^now world-renowned, thdn 
in the first flush of her youth — whom they had 
assembled to honor. When she began to sing 
— ah, well ! the ravishing notes of that sweet 
voice dwell yet in the hearts of some who 
heard her in those long-vanished golden days, 
and it may be that the fascination of the past 
hangs over them. At all events, it boots little 
to repeat the verdict which the world has long 
since passed on the fair caniatrice, or praise 
the power which wrought her audience out 
of dreaming, critical calm, into a fever of en- 
thusiasm on that by-gone night. Perhaps, 
for all their high-bred languor, the warm 
Southern current of their blood was ready 
enough to be stirred. Even unimpressible 
Raymond, who had yawned behind his hand 
at the overture, beat one palm upon another, 
as he said, “ She is divine ! ” 

“Yes, she is divine!” echoed Ermine in 
such a tone that he turned and looked curi- 
ously at her. 

“ One would think that you had been tak- 
ing opium,” he said. “ I never saw the pupils 
of your eyes dilated as they are now! You 
look as if you were dreaming dreams, or see- 
ing visions. Is it hashish or excitement ? ” ^ 


26 


EBB-TIDE. 


“ The soul of the music has gone into my 
blood, as Tennyson says of the rose,” answered 
she, smiling. “You are too cold — you don’t 
know any thing about it. No wonder Mira- 
beau wanted to die to the sound of music. It 
would surely take the pang out of dying — if 
any thing could ! ” 

“ I thought painting was your hobby,” said 
he, glancing over the programme, to see how 
much longer it would be before the concert 
ended. 

“And isn’t it all the same thing? Oh, if 
you could only tell what pictures I have seen 
— what exquisite, lucid, beautiful tints — since 
I have been sitting here. But then it is not 
heaven. It must end.” 

“Soon too, I hope,” said he, devoutly. 

But none of this concerns us very much, 
save in its effect on Ermine — which effect 
could scarcely be overrated. She might have 
been taking opium, hashish, any thing, from 
the expression of her face, the rapture of her 
sensations, when at last she rose to go. At 
another time she would not have felt the music 
so intensely ; but the excitement of the even- 
ing had come too closely — too entirely without 
intermission — on the excitement of the day, 
on the long, feverish strain over the picture 
that had mastered her soul as the music mas- 
tered her mind. Now she was “ deified,” she 
trod in supreme exaltation on air ; yet a wise 
physician looking at her would have foreboded 
terrible things from the reaction so pitilessly 
sure to come. Do you remember the wonder- 
ful description of an opium-trance which De 
Quincey gives in the “ Suspiria ? ” Something 
like this was upon Ermine when, pouring out 
with the crowd, she found herself driving 
home, under a dome of deepest steel-blue, 
thickset with glittering stars. Sleep ! How 
should she sleep with every pulse throbbing, 
every nerve quivering, every faculty of being 
strung to its utmost tension ? Surging through 
her brain — dominating even the jubilant clash 
of the orchestra, and the pure tones of a silvery 
voice — she seemed to feel the mighty pulse of 
the sea, to hear the soft swish of the waves, to 
catch the liquid sound of that grand ocean- 
monotone which, old as Time itself, will only 
end when “ Time shall be no more.” 

“ Raymond,” she said, as they alighted be- 
fore the door of the Erie House, from the 
open windows of which laughter and merry 
voices fioated out on the odorous night air, 
“ I cannot go in and face all those people — the 


noise and the light and the talk would drive 
me distracted. I am going down to the Bat- 
tery to listen to the water. It may quiet 
me.” 

“ Quiet you ! ” said Raymond, naturally 
much astonished. “ My dear Ermine, what 
quiet do you need ? You have not spoken 
three words since the concert ended,” 

“ Ah, but you don’t know what I have 
felt ! How could you ? I should not be sur- 
prised if you were sleepy ; but I am confident 
I ^hall never sleep again.” 

“ The best remedy for that will be to go to 
bed, I think.” 

“ Go to bed ! The mere idea of such a 
thing is abhorrent to me ! I should simply 
lie and toss and toss and toss — ^until finally in 
despair I might go to my paints. Then 
wouldn’t I look a ghost to-morrow ! If you 
want to avert that calamity, you will not say a 
word while I run down to the Battery.” 

“You forget your mother — what will she 
say ? ” 

“ If I were Madelon, I should answer, au 
diahle with mamma ! As it is, I don’t care 
what she says. I must go — I will go ! Won’t 
you be a good boy, and stay here till I come 
back ? I pledge you my word, I sha’n’t be 
gone ten minutes ! ” 

“ Stay here ! I should think not, indeed ! 
I will be a better boy, however, and go with 
you.” 

“ Oh, no, no — I must go by myself. I want 
the silence, and the night, and the water. 
Raymond — ^please stay ! ” 

“ Don’t be a — don’t be foolish. Ermine ! ’* 
said Raymond, almost roughly. “ If you have 
a mind for romantic star-gazing, of course I 
will take you to the Battery ; but as for letting 
you go alone — that is nonsense ! Your mother 
placed you under my care, and, whether you 
want me or not, I shall accompany you.” 

“Then,” said Ermine, with a slight stamp 
of her foot on the pavement, “ I won’t go ! ” 

“ Then,” said Raymond, with a very per- 
ceptible accent of anger, “ you will be doing a 
much more sensible thing than I could have 
expected of you.” 

“ You are impertinent ! ” cried she, blazing 
out upon him. 

“ Pardon me,” said he, biting Jiis lips. “ I 
had forgotten that women thinl they have a 
monopoly of incivility.” 

“ Raymond, you know that is not true ! ” 

“Whatever it is,” said Raymond, coldly, 


UNDER THE STARLIGHT. 


27 


** I think this discussion had better be con- 
cluded in the house.” 

“ I am not going into the house,” retorted 
Ermine, haughtily.- “ I am going down to the 
Battery.” 

“ Then I shall accompany you.” 

“ You may follow me, if you choose — you 
certainly shall not accompany me.” 

A pause. Affairs being at a “ dead-lock,” 
both combatants stop for breath, and eye each 
other in wrathful silence. Just then a hand 
pushes back a curtain of the bay-window, and 
two figures — a man’s and a woman’s — stand 
relieved against the brilliant light behind. 
The -woman is tall, slender, white-clad, with 
heavy dark plaits binding her head, and a 
scarlet flower burning among them : the man 
is also tall, well made, and handsome. Their 
voices float out distinctly on the still night 
air. 

Says the gentleman, “Your Benedict and 
Beatrice have not arrived yet.” 

“No doubt they have stopped en route for 
a sociable quarrel,” answered Madelon’s silver, 
mocking voice. “ Benedict and Beatrice have 
a weakness that way, you know.” 

“ They certainly are an interesting pair of 
lovers,” says the deeper tones, languidly. 
“ But can you tell me — why is quarrelling al- 
ways an incipient sign of love ? ” 

“ How should I know ? I never quarrel, 
and I never was in love.” 

“You never quarrel! — you never were in 
love! My dear Mademoiselle Lautrec, how 
shocking ! If some one made you very angry, 
then, you might, perhaps, condescend to begin 
the first — and, having begun the first, you 
might glide into the second.” 

“ Scarcely, I think.” 

“ May I try ? ” 

“ To make me angry ? Oh, certainly ; but 
I think it right to sr’ve you warning that you 
will not be likely to repeat the offence.” 

“ Why not V ” 

“ Simply becauflo I regard it as such a fool- 
ish and undignified amusement that I always 
drop the acquaintance of any one who has once 
led me into it.” 

“ Thanks for the warning — I shall be care- 
ful, then. But why make such a rule ? — why 
leave such a charming character as that of 
Beatrice entirely to your cousin ? ” 

“ Probably because I have no fancy for a 
Benedict.” 

“ Would a Romeo suit you better ? ” 


“ To smother me in sweets ? No. ^ Aucun 
chemin de Jleurs ne conduit d la gloire ’ — and 1 
take it that love and glory are much the same 
thing.” 

“ Perhaps Mark Antony — ” 

“ Ah, now you touch me more nearly — only, 
instead of losing a world for me, I should 
much prefer that he would gain one.” 

“ With you for inspiration, who could fail 
to do so ? ” 

“ Now, that is very pretty. Major Hastings. 
I am sure you have nothing better in your 
quiver ; so, on the principle of the best thing 
last, we will go back and report to Aunt Vic- 
torine that Ermine has not come.” 

The curtain fell again as they passed away. 
For a moment there was silence between the 
two eavesdroppers outside ; then, in a hard sort 
of a voice. Ermine said : 

“ If you have no objection, I believe I 
prefer for you to come with me. I have some- 
thing to say to you.” 

“ I am at your service,” he answered, 
stiffly. 

Side by side they walked away. Raymond 
did not offer his arm — probably because he 
knew that it would not be accepted — and 
neither of them spoke until they reached the 
Battery. Then, for the first time, Mr. Erie 
opened his lips. 

“ Give me your hand. Ermine — you will 
miss the step.” 

“ No, thanks — I can see perfectly,” replied 
Ermine, coldly. Having ascended the steps, 
she turned from him, and, walking some dis- 
tance, stood leaning against the railing — a 
white shape, faintly outlined in the dusky 
gloom — gazing seaward, and listening to the 
waves beating softly at her feet. 

What her thoughts were. Heaven only 
knows — perhaps she did not know herself — 
but the quiet of Nature stole over her like a 
subtle spell. Excited fancy, indignant anger, 
both died down ; both seemed hushed into 
insignificance by the wonderful power that 
wrapped water and shore in their “ tranced 
calm ” of perfect rest. In a little while she 
might have been herself once more — the self 
that shrank morbidly from giving pain — if 
Raymond had only been wise enough to leave 
her alone. 

But Raymond was no observer of that 
subtle flux and reflux of feeling, which — chief, 
ly for the want of a better name — we call 
mood. Eminently practical himself, the sensi 


28 


EBB-TIDE. 


tive, artistic temperament was to him more 1 
than a marvel, worse than an enigma : it was 
tjheer folly and imposition. As he stood silent, 
striving to read the riddle of that white, stead- 
fast face, he registered a solemn vow that if 
this wayward, haughty girl were ever in his 
power, her romantic fancies should be very 
summarily dealt with, and her proud spirit be 
broken if it would not bend. At present, his 
predominant feeling with regard to her was 
one of intense irritation ; and unfortunately he 
was not entirely successful in keeping this sen- 
timent out of his voice, when he finally lost 
patience and spoke. 

“ Did you bring me here to gaze at yow, 
while you gazed at the stars, Ermine? If 
there were a little more light, I might find the 
role interesting ; but at present it is rather un- 
satisfactory.” 

Ermine started, and, frowning slightly under 
cover of the darkness, turned toward him. 
No one could have told how keenly this dis- 
cordant voice jarred on her at the moment. 

“ No,” she said, with more repellant cold- 
ness than he had ever seen in her before, “ I 
did not bring you here to gaze at me. That 
would have been a very poor inducement in- 
deed. I brought you to speak a few plain 
words — for I think it is time that we came to 
an explanation.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Raymond, a little startled, 
yet not ill pleased that his opportunity had 
come thus unexpectedly. “I am a plain 
man,” he went on, “ and therefore always 
ready for plain speaking. Let us have an 
explanation by all means; the sooner the 
better.” 

“ Yes,” said Ermine, “ the sooner the 
better.” Then she stopped a moment to collect 
herself, for in truth it was a bold step she was 
about to take, and one from which she would 
have shrunk if this tide of excitement had not 
been giving her a fictitious strength. “ Since 
you are fond of plain speaking, Raymond,” 
flhe continued, before he had time to do more 
than feel the pause, “ I hope you will not be 
surprised if I speak to you very plainly — so 
plainly that I may perhaps shock you. You 
heard what Madelon and Major Hastings were 
saying. Of course, it is not necessary for me 
to tell you that such things are not true. 
Since they are not true — since they never will 
be true — you can imagine how very disagree- 
able they are to me. In fact, I will not toler- 
ate them. Being a man, you must find some 


1 way to let people understand that you and I 
are nothing to each other.” 

“ Being a man, my dear Ermine, that is 
just what I cannot do,” said Raymond, fold- 
ing his arms and leaning against the railing so 
as to face her. 

“ Why not ? ” she asked, haughtily. 

“ Simply because it is not my place to do 
so ; and simply also because we are a great 
deal to each other now, and I hope we may be 
more hereafter.” 

“ You forget yourself,” she said, growing 
in hauteur every moment. “You are nothing 
to me either now or hereafter ; and certainly 
I will never be any thing to you ! ” 

In the clear starlight they could see the 
outline of each other’s face, but all play of 
expression was of course veiled in obscurity. If 
Ermine had been able to watch the effect of 
her last words, she would have seen that Ray- 
mond paled in very marked degree, though his 
tone was as easy as it had been before, when 
he answei'ed : 

“I can prove that you are mistaken. Er- 
mine. The man who loves you passionately, 
and wishes to devote his life to proving that 
love, cannot possibly be ‘ nothing ’ to you ; 
while you are simply every thing to me.” 

“ Raymond ! ” She was so young that for 
a moment she lost dignity in passion. “ How 
dare you utter such words to me ! You know 
they are not true. You know that, if you ever 
loved anybody besides yourself, you loved 
Margaret, and that she — poor girl — loves you 
still!” 

“Margaret!” he repeated, and his face 
lightened, for he thought that, if she were 
jealous, his chance was better than even he had 
dared to hope. “ Is it possible you think me 
such a fool as to love Margaret, Ermine ? 
You might know me better. You might 
know that the beauty of a doll is not likely 
to attract me ; and Margaret has little besides 
that.” 

“ I am very well aware that she has not a 
fortune,” said Ermine, bitterly. 

The shaft was too keen not to strike home ; 
for, let a man be ever so conscious of mer- 
cenary motives, a taunt concerning those mo- 
tives is none the less hard to bear. The dark- 
red flush common to Raymond’s olive com- 
plexion surged over it, as he answered, rais- 
ing his figure a little, and slightly throwing 
back the chest across which his arms were 
folded : 


UNDER THE STARLIGHT. 


29 


“ I see you think that woman may use in- 
sult as well as incivility with impunity, Ermine. 
However, it is well for us to know exactly on 
what ground we stand. Do you mean to 
imply that my object in addressing yourself is 
purely mercenary ? ” 

The question was pointed and direct. Er- 
mine’s clear tones answered it without a shade 
of wavering or hesitation : 

“ Knowing no other object which you could 
possibly have, I am constrained to say that I 
do.” 

“Then,” said he, haughtily, “justification 
is impossible to me, and, if it were ever so pos- 
sible, would be beneath me. In this, as in 
many other things, I must bear as best I can 
the odium of your injustice.” 

“ I am tired of that charge,” said she, pas- 
sionately. “ Prove to me that I am unjust, and 
there is no one living who will sooner amend a 
wrong. You know that of me. Prove to me 
that I misjudge you; do not content yourself 
with mere assertion.” 

He bent forward and laid his hand down 
upon hers. Even in the starlight she seemed ’ 
to feel the fire which gathered in the velvety 
depths of those dark eyes. 

“If I prove your injustice to you. Ermine, 
will you let me name my own reward ? ” 

She shrank back from him — shrank in- 
voluntarily, and in a manner which would 
have cut to the very heai’t a man who truly 
loved her. 

“ No,” she said, “ I can make no such 
promise, because, if I were ever so much mis- 
taken, I can only beg your pardon for my un- 
just suspicions.” 

“ Will you give me leave to convince you 
of the sincerity of my love. Ermine ? ” 

“ No, Raymond.” She spoke more gently 
now, because in truth it was hard to believe 
that the earnestness quivering in his voice was 
all for her fortune. “ It would be useless. I 
can never love you.” 

“ Many women have said that who learned 
the lesson of love at last.” 

“ Perhaps so — but I am not one of those 
women.” 

“ Give me at least leave to try. You shall 
be free as air — bound to no;thing. Only let 
me try.” 

“ No,” said she, quickly — almost sharply. 

“ That would be next thing to an engage- 
ment, and people would have some right to 
talk of us, while you would have some right 


to reproach me when I came to say, at last, 
what I say now — I do not love you, and I can 
never marry you.” 

“ You had better consider that decision. 
Ermine.” 

“ If I considered it forever, I should never 
change it,” said she, relapsing into haughti- 
ness. 

“ You are sure of that ? ” 

“ I am perfectly sure of it.” 

He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and 
again she seemed to feel the light of the dark 
eyes facing her own so steadily in the soft 
starlight. 

“ I am not a betting-man. Ermine,” he said, 
quietly, “ or I should be willing to lay heavy 
odds that you will live to regret those words 
— and to unsay them.” 

Why was it that at this moment a cold 
hand seemed to grasp Ermine’s heart, and 
hold it in a vice ? She was free as air ; no 
human being had any power of compulsion 
over her — least of all, the man who stood be- 
side her — yet Madelon’s words seemed to come 
back on the soft flow of the water murmuring 
at her feet : “ Sooner or later, you will have 
to do it — why not succumb at once ? ” 

But the serremerd du coeur^ as the French 
call this contraction, did not last more than a 
second. Indignation rushed over her all the 
more strongly for the momentary terror which 
had preceded it ; and her words, when she 
spoke, seemed to sting like a whip, in their 
contemptuous scorn. 

“ It is time for this conversation to end, 
since you think it worth your while to try to 
intimidate me. I think I have said all that I 
wished to say — that I have definitely made 
clear all that I desired to make clear. I 
brought you here to tell you, once for all, that 
the plans which you have been building will 
never be realized ; and, having told you this, 
my conscience is clear.” 

“ In other words,” said Raymond, whose 
anger was so great that he could not restrain 
the expression of it, “ you did me the honor 
to reject me before I had ever made a pro- 
posal.” 

“I knev you would not spare me that 
taunt,” sai( Ermine, quietly. “ I expected it, 
and it does liot wound me in the least. Of its 
generosity I leave you to decide. Once more, 
however, I must request that it may be defi- 
nitely understood by everybody concerned, 
that there is no truth in the rumors which 


) 


30 


EBB-TIDE. 


have been circulated — ^by whom, I know not.” 

“ Perhaps I can enlighten you on that 
point.” 

“ I do not care to be enlightened,” she re- 
turned. “ The subject has no interest for me. 
Now, if you please, we will go back. Madelon 
and Major Hastings may make some other 
pleasant and good-natured remarks on our ab- 
sence if we remain longer.” 

“ One moment,” said he, laying his hand 
again on hers. “ You have had your turn to 
speak — ^now I must be sufficiently discourteous 
to detain you until I have had mine. In the 
first place, I do not accept your decision as 
final. No — you need not start and draw your- 
self up. That should be made clear at once. 
I do not accept it. I shall endeavor to induce 
you to reconsider it, and I think you will do 
80. Next ” — was it Ermine’s fancy that the 
voice took a slight tone of menace here ? — “ I 
wish you to understand that I know perfectly 
well who has been at work to prejudice you 
against me, and that I generally pay my debts 
— with interest.” 

“ Raymond,” the girl gasped — for the first 
time unnerved and thrown oft' her guard — “ I 
do not understand you. I do not know who 
you mean. No one has ever spoken against 
you to me. On the contrary, everybody — 
there at home — is only too anxious for me to 
marry you. I — I do not know whom you 
mean.” 

“You know perfectly well whom I mean,” 
he answered. “ You know perfectly well that 
I mean that — that brother of mine, whose 
business in life has been to annoy and disgrace 
me. The day may come, perhaps, when he 
and I will settle scores, and then I shall not 
be likely to forget to-night.” 

“ Alan is capable of taking care of him- 
self,” said Ermine, in that voice of indescrib- 
ably mingled pride and tenderness which is 
so significant from a woman’s lips. “ Your 
threats do not frighten me — they only prove 
how right I have been from first to last in my 
opinion of you. As for his having ever influ- 
enced me against you, I will not defend him 
from such a charge. Even while you make it, 
you do not believe it yourself.” 

“ In other words, you accuse me of delib- 
erate falsehood. Go on. Ermine ! Fill up the 
full measure of your injustice ! ” 

“ Raymond, I am tired,” she cried, with a 
sudden sound like a moan of pain. “ Oh, 
why have you forced me to all this? — why 


will you not be content when I tell you that I 
do not love you ? I can say no more than 
that.” 

“ There is no effect without a cause,” said 
he, grimly. “ You do not love me because, 
with all your haughty pride, you do love some 
one else — and I know only too well who that 
some one is.” 

He uttered the last words with ill-con- 
cealed malice, and paused for an answer, but 
no answer came. Ermine turned from him, 
and took two or three steps away. Then in 
the starlight he saw her pause, and apparently 
kneel down against the railing. He waited a 
minute or two, but she remained so silent and 
so still that he went up to her, and, after his 
questions received no reply, laid his hand on 
the white shoulder that gleamed like polished 
marble through her muslin dress. 

Then he saw that the reaction had come, 
and that she had quietly fainted, with her 
head pillowed on the railing, while the starlit 
waves rippled softly just below 


CHAPTER V. 

ERLES AND ERLES. 

Perhaps there is nothing more trying to 
the patience of a story-teller, than to be forced 
to pause in full tide of dramatic action to fur- 
nish some tiresome bit of explanation, descrip- 
tion, or retrospection, which, ten to one, will 
bore the reader almost, if not quite, as mueh 
as it has already bored the writer, yet which 
the exigencies of the narrative render impera- 
tively necessary. At such times one yearns 
for the liberty of a playwright, who leaves his 
characters to tell their own stories, and de- 
scribe their own antecedents in that epigram- 
matic flow of language with which everybody 
is gifted on the stage — wasting neither time 
nor paper on the excessively “ heavy ” business 
of filling in and filling out, of narrating family 
circumstances, and recounting family genealo- 
gies, which falls with such a desponding 
weight of weariness on the unfortunate novel- 
ist. What must be, must be, however ; and 
sometimes matters come to such a pass that 
a few plain words are absolutely essential to 
set them straight, to place the reader in that 
properly confidential position which a reader 
should always fill, and — as they expressively 
have it at sea — to “ clear the decks for ae 


ERLES AND ERLES. 


31 


tion ” in such a satisfactory manner that there 
shall hereafter be no troublesome interrup- 
tions to the smooth working of those different 
threads which go to form the story. Thus 
much by way of preface and apology for a 
few words which duty — not inclination — ne- 
cessitates, concerning the Erles. Somebody 
says that the writer who goes back in his 
story for any purpose whatever, loses ground 
and goes* back just that much in the estima- 
tion of his reader. If this rule hold good, I 
fear that I must prepare myself for an enor- 
mous retrograde movement in the minds of all 
who may glance through the pages of this 
sketch, for the necessity of which I have al- 
ready spoken requires a backward leap of 
several years from the date on which my story 
opens. 

To begin in rather irregular fashion, there 
once lived an English governess in the house- 
hold of the Erles, a certain Miss North, who, 
being of a decided literary turn, and of de- 
cided scribbling propensities, kept a journal in 
which were recorded many things, curious and 
otherwise, concerning the family in which she 
resided. It occurs to me just now that I 
can lighten my own shoulders of a consider- 
able burden by throwing the labor of describ- 
ing the past circumstances of the Erles on 
the willing shoulders of Miss North. Her 
journal — which I chance to possess — is tempt- 
ingly explicit on this point, and, as far as I 
can judge, moderately attractive in style, so I 
cut therefrom a few pages, paste them in my 
MS., and head them in approved romantic 
fashion. 

Leaves from the Journal of a Governess, 

April 1, 185-. 

(A date three years before the story.) 

“ To-day being Friday, I did not begin 
school, but I saw my two pupils, who are kept 
much more to their own domain of nursery 
and school-room than American children in 
general, tested their acquirements, settled the 
order of their studies, and gave them some 
lessons for Monday. They are very bright 
children, peifectly polished in manner, and 
quite well instructed in all the hienseances of 
social life, but as ignorant as little pigs of 
the most common rudiments of every-day 
learning. Reginald could not spell his own 
name, when I told him to do so, but shrugged 
his shoulders with the air of a Chesterfield as 
he said, ‘ Eh bien^ he would write his initials 


as Cousin Raymond did ! ’ I strove to ex- 
plain that, in case of emergency, it would be 
as well to know how to write it in full, and I 
think he at last admitted the force of my rea- 
soning. I have taken quite a fancy to him, 
although he frankly informed me that he 
hated governesses, and wanted to go to school 
with other boys. ‘ Suppose other boys asked 
you to spell your name ? ’ I said. And at 
that my young gentleman hung his head. As 
for Louise, she is a little fair-haired doll, a 
pocket edition of Margaret, with her head so 
full of toilets and chiffom that I despair of 
ever putting much else into it. She smoothed 
out her pink-silk skirt, in which she looks 
like a little ballet-dancer, and sat on my lap 
with her tiny-slippered feet crossed, her small 
hands demurely laid over one another, her 
large blue eyes on my face, and answei'ed all 
my questions with an aplomb and ease of man- 
ner that would have done credit to a young 
lady of two seasons. She told me exactly 
what sort of ‘ point ’ it is that ‘ mamma ’ 
wears on her handkerchiefs, how many beau- 
tiful bracelets and rings Margaret has in her 
box on her toilet-table, and oh ! what a lovely 
gold-colored silk came home for Ermine the 
other day, with flounces just so (showing on 
her own diminutive skirt), and trimming across 
the body this way. But I shall never forget 
her face when I asked her the result of add- 
ing two and two together. 

“ After I had disposed of the children, I 
sent for Ermine, who came, with a glow of 
pleasure that made her look fairly beautiful, 
and conducted me to her chamber. 

“ ‘ Mamma orders that all painting be done 
in the school-room,’ she said, ‘ but I draw 
here as much as I please, and I want you to 
*look over my portfolio. My teachers used to 
compliment me a good deal on these sketches, 
but I hope you will not hesitate to express 
your real opinion about them.’ 

“ I assured her that I would certainly ex- 
press my real opinion, whatever that opinion 
might be ; and, with her mind apparently 
much relieved on this point, she placed me in 
a delightful easy-chair by an open window, 
whose lace curtains the soft southern breeze 
was fluttering to and fro, drew a low otto- 
man forward for herself, and laid a richly-em- 
bossed drawing-portfolio in my lap. 

“ To say that I was astonished, when I un- 
tied the strings and began to look over the 
different sketches, is a very faint way of ex- 


32 


EBB-TIDE. 


pressing what I really felt. I am forty-five 
years old, and I have been tossed about the 
world ever since the day 1 entered a pension- 
nat des demoiselles at Paris ; I have visited 
numberless schools of design, and seen the 
sketches of hands with whose works the world 
is now familiar ; I have frequented exhibitions 
all my life, and taken the greatest interest in 
artists and their productions ; but I had never 
seen any thing to equal the exquisite delicacy 
of finish and power of touch which were visi- 
ble in these sketches of a girl barely seventeen, 
and almost entirely untaught. As I turned 
them over, I remembered the day when I, too, 
had hoped to do something with colors ; I re- 
membered the bitter death of that hope, and, 
for the first time in all my life, I felt resigned. 
My rough counsellors had been right. Talent 
was mine, never genius like this. One after 
another I placed aside the sheets of bristol- 
board, and still wonder grew upon me ; for, 
whether it was an elaborate drawing where 
stroke was laid on stroke with the beauty of 
a line-engraving, or the merest outline unfilled 
by any detail, the same facile pencil showed 
itself, the same bold freedom of hand was 
there, the same marvellous power of conveying 
expression in a single line or dot, the same 
divine inspiration caught from Nature’s self. 

“I looked entirely through the portfolio 
before I said any thing ; then, as I began to 
replace the sketches, I saw that Ermine was 
gazing very wistfully into my face. 

“ ‘ I see what you think,’ she said, in a 
very subdued voice. ‘ Don’t pain yourself by 
telling me, mademoiselle. You think I have 
been flattered and am very foolish — that is 
all.’ 

“ I looked down at her ; the soft, dark 
eyes met mine very bravely, though a little 
sadly, and, after a while, I laid my hand on 
her shoulder. 

“ ‘ Child,’ I said, gravely, ‘ I wish it were 
some voice of more authority than mine to tell 
you that God has given you one of His great 
talents, and that in this portfolio is that which, 
if you choose, can make you world-renowned.’ 

“ She started violently, and looked at me 
incredulously. 

“ ‘ Mademoiselle, you — you are jesting ! ’ 

“ I shook my head. 

“‘No, I am in earnest — do you think I 
would jest on such a subject? — as much in 
earnest as when I tell you that all question of 
teaching is at an end between us. We can 


paint together, and I may be able to give you 
a few practical hints in the use of colors ; but 
instruction I am unable to render.’ 

“She looked at me half startled, almost 
awed. 

“ ‘ Mademoiselle, pardon me ; I can scarcely 
befieve any thing so strange ! Is this really 
true ? ’ 

“I answered as gravely: 

“ ‘ It is certainly true.’ 

“ Then, to my surprise, she bowed her 
head down on her hands, and I saw quick 
tears gush through the slender fingers. 

“ ‘ Alan was right,’ she said, in a low 
voice. 

“After this we adjourned to the school- 
room, to see what she could do with colors, 
and here I found that my instruction was very 
much needed. She knew very little indeed of 
painting, and even what she did know had 
evidently been taught by incompetent masters. 
Her aptitude and eagerness to learn, however, 
I had never seen surpassed. She threw her- 
self, heart and soul, into the lesson, hung upon 
my every word, watched my manipulations of 
the brush with eyes that fairly glowed, and at 
last dashed off* a bit of foreground that elicited 
my warmest praise. 

“ ‘ Is it really good ? ’ she asked, still some- 
what suspiciously. 

‘“It is really wonderful, for a beginner. 
What a pity you are an heiress, my dear ! 
You ought to be what Nature has made you, 
an artist.’ ^ 

“‘Oh, how I should like it!’ she cried, 
eagerly. ‘I would rather be an art-student, 
and work for my daily bread, than the richest 
heiress in the world.’ 

“ ‘ Does it never strike you that a good 
many art-students would gladly exchange theii 
lives for yours ? ^ 

“ ‘ Sometimes,’ she answered, retreating a 
step back to look at a rock she was painting 
— ‘ sometimes, and then I wish we eould man- 
age to do so. It would make me very happy, 
I am sure.’ 

“ ‘ And would you give up your beautiful 
island ? ’ 

“ ‘ I would go to see it. I could enjoy it 
as much as if I owned the whole of it, you 
know.’ 

“ ‘ And your guardian ? ’ 

“Her face fell; it was almost as mobile 
and candid as a child’s, that face 1 


ERLES AND ERLES. 


83 


‘“True. I would have to give up all my 
friends to the new Ermine. Then I don’t 
think I could possibly exchange with her. I 
would not resign my dear guardian and Alan 
for all the paints in the world ! ’ 

“ What a strange girl she was ! Her dear 
guardian and Alan — not a mention of her 
mother or any member of the household in 
which she lived ? 

“‘Yes,’ I said, laying an artful little trap, 
‘ the new Ermine would take all your friends 
as well as your fortune — she would be your 
mother’s daughter, and you would have no 
more interest in her than a stranger.’ 

“ She was standing with her profile to me, 
and I thought I saw her lip quiver at the last 
word ; but, if so, it was only for a second, and 
she answered, after a moment, quite as easily 
as before : 

“ ‘ I hope she would be fair, then, and like 
dresses and visiting, and — Raymond ! Mamma 
would gain by the exchange, in that case. 
Poor mamma ! ’ 

“There was a sudden change of tone — a 
sudden giving way — a sudden pathos in the 
last two words, that took me completely by 
surprise. I looked up quickly ; the girl’s face 
was quivering all over as if with unshed tears, 
and she suddenly threw down her palette and 
brushes. 

“ ‘ That is enough for this morning, don’t 
you think so, mademoiselle ? It is nearly din- 
ner-time, and I must change my dress, for 
look what paint-stains are all over it ! ’ 

“‘You must have some aprons,’ said I, 
looking at the pretty muslin which was ruined. 
‘ Don’t forget ! — long aprons that will cover 
the whole front of your dress. I will not 
give you another lesson until you have put 
one on.’ 

“‘Very well,’ she answered, a little ab- 
sently. ‘ I will tell Lena to make me some at 
once. What are you going to do, mademoi- 
selle ? ’ 

“ ‘ I am going to clean this palette of 
yours,’ I answered, a little severely. ‘It 
should never be left in this condition.’ 

“ At which Mademoiselle St. Amand very 
forcibly took the palette out of my hand. 

“ ‘ Let it alone,’ she said. ‘ I mean to send 
Lena to do it.’ 

“ ‘ Lena ! But how should a maid know — ’ 

“ ‘ She knows,’ interrupted my companion, 
decisively. ‘ Alan showed her how when he 
and I used to play at painting, and were both 
3 


of us too lazy to clean the palettes and brushes 
ourselves.’ 

“ ‘ But my dear Ermine, do you never do 
any thing for yourself? ’ 

“The young West-Indian shrugged her 
gi’aceful southern shoulders. 

“ ‘ A qui hon^ mademoiselle ? If I were 
poor and an artist, I should have to, you know 
— but I am not either poor or an artist, and 
that is an end of the matter ! — Come, I want 
to wash my hands, and then — do you know 
what I mean to do ? ’ 

“‘No. How should I?’ 

“She bent, down, laughing, and made the 
portentous announcement in a very dramatic 
whisper : 

“ ‘ I mean to show you Alan’s sketches.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed ! ’ said I, not quite so over- 
whelmed as she seemed to expect. ‘ Then 
pei’haps you will also enlighten my. ignorance 
as to who Alan is. I have not heard yet, you 
know.’ 

“‘Have you not? Well, then, you shall 
hear — all about him ! Come, now.’ 

“ She ran lightly down-stairs before me — 
the school-room is in the third story — singing 
a gay French song as she went, and seeming 
to fill the whole house with the grace of her 
sunshiny presence. I could not help follow- 
ing her fondly with my eyes — it is such a 
pleasure to see a young girl who is still enough 
of a child to enjoy her youth. At the foot of 
the stairs she paused to wait for me, and we 
both went back to the pretty chamber we had 
left an hour before — the chamber that looked 
as pure and sweet as its occupant. 

“I sat down in my former seat by the 
open, jasmine-hung window, while Ermine 
washed her paint-smeared hands, and, that 
duty over, crossed the floor to a little inlaid 
cabinet, unlocked it with a key that hung at 
her chdtelaine^ and gazed down at it as she 
might have gazed at the tiny altar arranged 
with such care in a curtained recess not far oft 
— the altar with its ivory crucifix and holy- 
eyed Madonna, its withered palm-branch and 
flask of holy water, its silver lamp and all the 
other tender arrangements, which, strict Prot- 
estant though I was, had touched my heart 
strangely when I first entered the room. 

“ ‘ This is where I keep every thing con- 
nected with Alan,’ said she, glancing back at 
me. ‘I love. dearly to look at them — but 
still, they make me sad. I cannot exactly tell 
why, but they do. Here is a little boat he 


34 


EBB-TIDE. 


made me once— long ago. See! It still has 
its pennon and the name he gave it — La belle 
Ermine. Poor Alan ! He was always so fond 
of the sea, but he expected to be a naval of- 
ficer in those days. And here is his ow'n port- 
folio, with his own sketches in it. Now, made- 
moiselle, prepare to be dazzled.’ 

“ I am bound to say that, if I had done so, 
I should have been grievously disappointed — 
for the important sketches were by no means 
extraordinary either in conception or execu- 
tion. The ordinary efforts of clever talent, 
without one spark of genius — that was all. 
Better sketches certainly than are usually 
found in an amateur’s portfolio ; better, even, 
than those of many would-be artists, showing 
considerable knowledge, and great apprecia- 
tion of art, showing also a certain spirit and 
vigor that made you like them better the lon- 
ger you looked at them ; but not worthy of be- 
ing compared with those exquisite efforts of 
the girl who now looked up in my face, expect- 
ing praise as naturally as she had before ex- 
pected censure. I praised honestly, but what 
I said did not seem to satisfy her. 

“ ‘ Mademoiselle, you speak so coldly ! ’ 
she cried, half indignantly. ‘ Surely you think 
them more than just “ well done.” You wasted 
so much praise on my foolish drawings, and 
now you have nothing to say that is worth 
saying about these sketches — Alan’s sketches.’ 

“ ‘ Do you really think these are as good 
as yours. Ermine ? ’ I asked, with a smile. 

“ ‘ As good as mine ? Mademoiselle 1 ’ 

“ It was almost anger that spoke in the as- 
tonished tone, almost anger that mounted over 
cheek and brow in a sudden, burning blush. 

“ ‘ Because, if you do,’ I pursued, very 
coolly, ‘ you are wonderfully mistaken — and 
either partiality blinds your judgment, or your 
skill is even more instinct than I thought it.’ 

“ For a moment I really did not know 
whether she would throw the portfolio at my 
impious head, or take me by the shoulders 
and put me out of the room, she faced me 
with such indignant eyes ; but I held myself 
prepared for either event, and endeavored 
meanwhile to look as quiet as possible, so the 
storm blew over in words. 

“ ‘ Mademoiselle, I did not think you would 
have treated me so. I would never, never have 
shown you Alan’s drawings, if I had not 
thought you would appreciate them — if I had 
ever suspected that you would have said such 
cruel things ! They are cruel, and — and fool- 


ish, too. /draw like Alan? I do any thing 
like this foreshortening, or that sea, or those 
figures ? Why, it is ridiculous 1 I could not 
do it if I were to try forever 1 ’ 

‘“Very well,’ said I, with a little sigh or 
resignation, ‘ we won’t argue the point. You’ll 
allow me, however, to retain my own opinion, 
I hope. It is all a matter of taste, you know 
— most things are, in this world. So 1 — is it 
possible ? ’ 

“ ‘ What is the matter ? ’ she asked, for L 
had suddenly paused, with my eyes fixed on 
the portfolio in great surprise. 

“ I pointed to the inside, where, in a large, 
flowing, rather boyish hand, was written sev- 
eral times over the name of ‘ Alan Erie,’ and a 
date eleven years before. 

“‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the portfolio was his 
when he was a boy, but the sketches have 
been drawn at various times since. A good 
many are foreign, you see — all those South- 
American scenes, for instance — and that pict- 
ure of the Adventure he drew for me the last 
time he was at home.’ 

“ ‘ I was noticing the name,’ I said. ‘ I 
had no idea he was — ’ 

“ ‘ Papa’s nephew ? Had you not ? But 
he is — and Raymond’s brother, too.’ 

“ I suppose I looked astonished, for she 
went on quickly : 

“ ‘ They are only half-brothers, and I some- 
times think that they must be even less than 
that — they are so totally unlike. Raymond is 
so worldly, so mercenary, so cold-hearted and 
narrow-minded, while Alan is — well he is my 
preux chevalier whose praises I never grow 
weary of sounding 1 ’ 

“‘But he is no relation of yours,’ said I, 
a little suspiciously, as befitted forty-five and 
my preceptress responsibility. 

“ Yet I could not help feeling a little 
ashamed when the soft, dark eyes lifted them- 
selves to my face, candid and pure as the first 
mother’s before the fall. 

“ ‘ I have always thought that there are 
some ties stronger than blood, mademoiselle — 
and that gratitude is chief among them. I 
have never had but one friend since I left my 
dear island, and Alan is that one. I shall never 
forget the first time I saw him. I was a poor 
little wretched, homesick creature, with the 
heaviest head and the sorest heart that ever a 
child carried about, to its own diseomfort and 
the annoyance of other people. I had done 
nothing but fret and wail and weep from the 


ERLES AND ERLES. 


35 


liOiir I went on shipboard to the hour I 
landed, and from the hour I landed to the 
hour I first saw Alan’s face. I had worn out 
everybody’s sympathy, and worried every- 
body to death. I had even so far exasperated 
mamma that she forbade my appearing in her 
presence “ until I could behave myself prop- 
erly.” I was as much an object of disgust to 
Margaret as she was an object of detestation 
to me. I hated Mr. Erie, I hated the city, the 
house, the servants, every thing about me, I 
even fairly loathed the daylight ; and I was 
lying on a trundle-bed in the nursery, sob- 
bing my very heart out, and wishing I could 
commit suicide — you need not smile, made- 
moiselle, for I remember distinctly that I was 
wondering how I could manage to do it — 
when the door opened, and it seemed to me 
an angel stood there. But it was only Alan — 
dear old Alan, in whom there was not much 
of the angel ! He had been writing in the 
school-room, and heard my sobs. To this day 
I remember the expression of his face — its 
supreme pity and gentleness, though he was 
only a boy, and a very rough boy, of sixteen. 
To this day I hear his voice as he said, “ Poor 
child ! ” — and took me and all my misery up 
in his arms. From that hour I loved him, 
and from that hour I have been resigned to 
my life of exile. Mademoiselle, do you won- 
der at it ? ’ 

“ I smiled. It was so like an intense 
Southern nature to magnify such a simple act 
into such large proportions ! 

“ ‘At the loving, or the resignation — 
which. Ermine ? ’ 

“ ‘ The loving,’ said she, frankly. ‘ Ah ! 
if you only knew how good and true and ten- 
der he has always been to me ! And they try 
to make me ashamed of him ! Ashamed of 
him f My brave Alan ! Why, I honor him 
more, as the simple captain of the Adventure, 
than if he were an admiral of a hundred 
navies ! ’ 

“I contented myself with simply asking, 
‘ Why ? ’ 

“Then the impulsive tongue was loosed, 
and she told me a very touching story in a 
few words : 

“ Fifteen years ago, by far the largest and 
wealthiest business-house in Charleston — one 
which dealt in all commercial enterprises with 
a bolder spirit and on a surer basis than any 
other — was that of Erie Brothers. They were, 
it seems, for a time, the veritable money-kings 


not only of Charleston itself, but of the whoU 
rich country which was, in a trading sense, 
tributary to it. Their ships were on every 
sea, their indorsement was received as gold in 
every mart of commerce, their enterprise and 
prosperity were building up the city as well as 
their own fortunes, when there came a year to 
be long remembered, of monetary panic and 
crash — a time when all credit failed, when'^ 
gloom overspread the whole country, when 
disaster and ruin were so common that men 
merely shrugged their shoulders over a new 
failure. Yet, even at such a time as this, the 
tidings echoed like a thunder-bolt that the 
house of Erie Brothers was bankrupt ! It was 
only the old story, with the old tragic ending 
— for the elder brother, unable to face his 
darkened life or shattered fortunes, put a pis- 
tol to his head and ended both ! The younger 
acted raoi'e sensibly. Thanks to a very hand- 
some face and a very beguiling tongue, he 
married a charming and wealthy West - In- 
dian widow whom he met while temporarily 
rusticating in those lovely islands. Then, 
with his wife’s fortune, he came back to 
Charleston, and resumed the old business on a 
much smaller scale. The dead brother’s old- 
est son brought so much untiring energy and 
skill to the cause of reestablishing the fallen 
credit of the house, that he was rewarded 
with the position of junior partner; and, from 
that day to the present, this second firm has 
been steadily advancing in the public confi- 
dence, until there are now few more influen- 
tial houses in the city. But, meanwhile, there 
was another son — this Alan — who, from his 
boyhood, had loved the sea as only sailors of 
Nature’s own making ever do love it, who was 
his father’s pride and delight, and who, while 
Raymond was destined to the gloomy tread-mill 
of the counting-house, had always been prom- 
ised his heart’s desire — a naval appointment. 
He received it at last, and had already made 
his first cruise, as a midshipman, when the 
awful blow came. It was the first news to 
greet him when he reached his native shore — • 
the first item that met his eye in the first news- 
paper carelessly thrust into his hand — the 
one topic upon every tongue. Even the very 
newsboys cried in his ear, ‘ Failure of Erie 
Brothers ! Suicide of the senior partner ! ’ 
It was good for the poor boy that he had a 
mother — else the blue water was very close at 
hand, and youth is little able to bear those two 
spectres that daunt the oldest and the hardest 


36 


EBB-TIDE. 


— Disgrace and Mortal Agony. He came 
home, however — to be congratulated that the 
crash left his prospects comparatively unhurt. 
His mother — the father’s second wife — had 
been moderately independent, and, with a 
thoughtfulness very rare among American 
men, her husband had insisted that all her 
fortune should be settled on herself. This 
was safe, this would support her in ease, and 
also give Alan an independence of the world ; 
but the two only looked in each other’s eyes, 
and saw the same desire in each. ‘ My son, 
it is for your father’s good name ! ’ the mother 
said. ‘ Give it up, mother,’ said the boy. ‘ I 
will work for you.’ So, despite the angry re- 
monstrances of the elder brother, the fortune 
was resigned to the creditors of the firm, Mrs. 
Erie opened a school, and Alan gave up his 
profession and ambition forever ! 

“ ‘ For, you see, he could not continue in 
the navy,’ said Ermine, who had warmed with 
her story until her eyes were glowing with 
enthusiasm. ‘ He had to make money — for 
he was determined his mother should not 
drudge at school - teaching longer than he 
could help — and the navy is the last place in 
the world for that, you know ; so he entered 
the merchant - service. Nobody, except his 
mother, encouraged him in the step — every- 
body thought it was a dreadful thing for a 
gentleman’s son to do — Raymond fairly raged 
against it — but Alan held firm. “ I was born 
for a sailor,” he said ; “ I shall never be con- 
tent anywhere but on the sea, and I can be 
content there in any capacity. When Na- 
ture makes a man one thing, he never does 
any good by going against the grain and be- 
coming another. I shall not cease to be a 
gentleman because I enter an honest profes- 
sion, nor lose any regard that is worth keep- 
ing.” And he carried out his purpose — his 
two purposes. He became a seaman, and he 
has risen so steadily that, although he is only 
twenty-six now, he is captain of one of the 
finest vessels that leaves the port of Charles- 
ton. He supports his mother so well that she 
gave up her school long ago, and lives in one 
of the most charming little houses in the 
w'orld, where I will take you to see her some 
day, for I love her dearly, and she looks just 
like a fairy godmother ! ’ 

“ Of course I said I should like it very 
much, but, staid governess as I am, I believe 
Ermine’s enthusiasm has so far infected me 
that I feel more inclined to see her wonderful 


hero — the naval officer turned sea-captain— 
than even the mother for whom he made his 
sacrifice.” 

This is as much of Miss North’s journal as 
concerns us at present. She has told — amply 
at least — the story of the Erles ; and it is to 
be hoped that her conclusion may find some 
faint echo in the minds of all readers, gentle 
or otherwise ; for the “ naval-officer turned 
sea-captain,” whom she desired to see (and 
whom, by-the-way, she did see, and liked ex- 
tremely), will soon make his bow before the 
foot-lights. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ SEE, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES ! ” 

“ Well, my dear, how do you feel this 
morning ? ” asked Madelon, as she entered her 
cousin’s chamber, somewhere about 10 a. m., 
on the day after the concert. “ I should have 
been in to see you before, but Lena reported 
that you were asleep, and I thought it a pity 
to disturb you. One should be allowed to 
sleep after achieving such a fainting-fit and 
such a sensation as you did last night. Ma 
foi ! why do you look so much astonished ? 
Had you forgotten all about it ? ” 

“No, indeed. I remember the fainting 
perfectly,” said Ermine, ruefully. She pre- 
sented a very woe-begone and dishevelled ap- 
pearance just then as she lay among the white 
draperies of the bed, her head on one pillow, 
and her hair tossed over another, dark circles 
under her languid eyes, her lips so pale that 
they looked as if the blood had been drained 
out of them, her whole system unstrung, and 
apparently passive under the terrible reaction, 
which is the Nemesis following close upon every 
excitement of the nervous temperament. “ I 
remember the fainting perfectly,” she con- 
tinued. “ It was very foolish of me, but I could 
not help it ; it came on me too suddenly. But 
I don't remember any sensation which I caused. 
I thought you were all taking it very quietly, 
when I came to myself.” 

“ Oh, then I suppose we were,” said Made- 
Ion, sitting down on the side of the bed, and 
beginning to sniff at a Jlagon of cologne which 
had fallen from the slender hands that looked 
too nerveless to clasp even a bottle. “ But 
Mr. Saxton, and Major Hastings, and the Dun- 
wardins (who had spent the evening playing 


“SEE, THE CONQUEKING HERO COMES!” 


37 


whist with Aunt Victorine and Mr. Erie), were 
all here when Raymond entered bearing the in- 
sensible form of Mademoiselle St. Amand in his 
arms 1 Pray, can you imagine w/ia^ a sensation 
there was in that case ! ” 

“ Madelon, how have you the heart to treat 
me so I You — you know you are only jesting. 
It is not true.” 

“ Jesting ! Good Heavens, Ermine, can’t 
you tell jest from earnest ? On my honor as 
a Christian, it is every word true.” 

“ Those people were really here ? ” 

“ Certainly they were — every one of them. 
Of course it is a pity ” (philosophically), “ for 
the Dunwardins are the greatest gossips in 
Charleston, and everybody will hear of it be- 
fore noon to-day.” 

Ermine sat up in bed, pushing pack her 
hair with both hands, and looking so piteous 
that she might have moved even her cousin’s 
compassion. 

“ 0 Madelon 1 ” (gasping as if for breath), 
“ don’t tell me that Raymond took me in 
there — straight in there where they all were ? ” 

“ Yes, he did,” said Madelon, decidedly. 
“ It would be a cruel kindness to keep the 
truth from you, because you will be obliged to 
hear it as soon as you go out. Instead of 
calling Aunt Victorine to see about you, he 
brought you straight into the sitting-room ; 
and I think, for my part ” (waxing a little 
warm), “ that it was very ungentlemanly con- 
duct.” 

“ It was infamous conduct,” cried Ermine, 
sinking back upon her pillows in a wild pas- 
sion of tears, “ and I will never, never, never 
forgive him for it as long as I live 1 ” 

Madelon made no answer. In fact, the 
tears did not give her much opportunity for 
reply. She quietly waited for them to subside, 
sniffing meanwhile, with meditative calmness, 
at the cologne, and sprinkling herself with a 
fragrant shower now and then. 

“ Don’t cry so. Ermine,” she said at last, 
a little sharply. “ What on earth is the good 
of it? You’ll only spoil your eyes, and make 
your head ache. I can tell you ” (significant- 
ly), “ you will be sorry if you do. Of course, 
it was outrageous in Raymond ; or would have 
been outrageous, if matters had not been 
settled. I take it for granted, however, that 
you are engaged to him.” 

“You know better than that,” cried Er- 
mine, with a smothered, wrathful sob. “You 
know I would die first I ” 


“ Mon Dieu ! ” (with surprise which, if sim- 
ulated, was the perfection of art), “ do you 
mean to say you are not engaged to him ? 
Well, my dear, I congratulate you upon being 
the most imprudent and the most inconsist- 
ent woman in Charleston. If I had a fancy 
to compromise myself, and to be town-talk, I 
think I should select a man whom I liked, and 
not one whom I professed to hate.” 

“ Profess to hate 1 I don’t know what you 
mean by that, Madelon. You know that I do 
hate him 1 ” 

“ I know it, do I ? ” said Madelon, sarcas- 
tically. “ Well, really you must excuse me if 
I differ with you on that point. I know you 
say you hate him ; but actions speak so much 
louder than words, that incredulity is pardon- 
able.” 

“ What actions of mine have ever spoken 
any thing but detestation for him ? ” demanded 
Ermine, turning round with eyes which began 
to blaze through their tears. 

“ Did your actions last night speak very 
much detestation ? Instead of coming home 
from the concert, didn’t you dismiss the car- 
riage and walk down to the Battery ? — didn’t 
you stay there for an hour or two ? — and 
didn’t you finally make your entrance in Mr. 
Erie’s arms ? ” 

“ Don’t you believe that, if I had known 
any thing about it, I would have done any 
thing before he should have touched me?” 

“ I am not speaking of possibilities,” said 
Madelon, coldly. “ I was simply mentioning 
facts.” 

“ Well, I can mention a fact also,” said Er- 
mine, suddenly changing to ominous calm. 
“You wonder why I didn’t come straight home 
from the concert. I will tell you. The music 
excited me very much — as music always does 
— and when we reached here, and I saw how 
many people were assembled, I told Ray- 
mond ” — the very pronunciation of his name 
cost her an effort — “that I wanted to run 
down to the Battery and quiet myself with the 
sound of the water. He refused to let me go 
alone, and I refused to allow him to accom- 
pany me, so the matter would probably have 
ended by my coming in, if you had not gone to 
the window just then with Major Hastings. 
You remember what you said ” — 1 er eyes 
brightened and expanded until even Madelon’s 
lids sank beneath their glow — “ I was not more 
than a stone’s-throw from you, and of course I 
heard it all. It surprised me, for I could not 


38 


EBB-TIDE. 


have imagined that you would so easily recon- 
cile it to your conscience to give currency to a 
report which you knew to be false. However, 
that does not matter. Another disappoint- 
ment, more or less, is of small importance. I 
was going to say that what I heard made me 
determine to come to an explanation with Ray- 
mond. I requested him to accompany me to 
the Battery, and I told him explicitly that 
these things must end, for that nothing on 
earth should ever induce me to marry him.” 

“ In other words, your were kind enough 
to reject him before he had ever offered him- 
self.” 

“ He said that too ; and it hurt me no 
more from his lips that it does from yours.” 

“ And have you any idea what will be said 
of you — especially after last night ? ” 

“ I am past caring what is said of me by 
any gossiping tongues whatever.” 

“ I can assure you, however, that Aunt Vic- 
torine will care.” 

“ She will have no right to do so, since it is 
her own fault.” 

“ I think you will be sorry for all this one 
day. Ermine.” 

“ Not half so sorry as you will be for 
lending yourself to such a scheme, Made- 
Ion.” 

“ The odds are too unequal,” said Madelon. 
“ You wull be forced to come to terms.” 

Ermine clinched her hands together, and, 
pale as she had been before, grew still more 
pale with resolution, not with fear. 

“ You will see,” she said. 

“ Yes, I will see,” the other rejoined. “ I 
think it right to tell you one thing, however : 
I have made my last effort in your behalf, and 
given you my last warning. I am a soldier of 
fortune, as you well know : I have my own way 
to make in the world, by my own wits, and I 
cannot afford to let sentiment or feeling hold 
my hands. Heretofore I have tried to serve 
you — honestly tried, according to the best 
judgment I could form, little as you may think 
it. Hereafter, I shall serve myself. If my 
interest clashes with yours, I give you fair 
warning that I shall not surrender an inch.” 

“ I can credit that, Madelon,” said Ermine, 
coldly. “ I only do not understand why you 
should think it necessary to give such a warn- 
ing.” 

“ Simply because I wish the point made 
clear. I owe the world nothing,” said the girl, 
Betting her teeth, “ and I am determined to 


take all that I can gain from it, by cunning oi 
by force.” 

“ Why not follow Margaret’s example ? ” 
asked Ermine, with bitter weariness. “ Why 
not sell yourself to the highest bidder ? ” 

“Nobody has ever bid high enough,” 
answered Madelon, throwing her head back 
with the air of a De Rohan. “ Poor as I am, 
I have that which many a millionnairess lacks, 
the knowledge how to spend wealth. Oh, if I 
were rich ” — clasping her hands with that dra- 
matic fervor which comes by nature to all of 
French blood — juste del! what a grande 
dame I could be ! ” 

“ What a pitiful ambition ! ” said Ermine’s 
face — though not her lips. Then she added 
aloud : “ I wonder you don’t consider what a 
sinful thing such an inordinate desire for wealth 
is ; and to what consequences it may lead. It 
seems to me that it is at the bottom of nearly 
every crime of earth since our Lord Himself 
was betrayed for thirty pieces of silver.” 

“ Why don’t you preach to Margaret ? ” 
asked Madelon, with her trenchant sneer. 
“ She practises, while I only theorize.” 

“ Margaret has not a tenth part of your 
sense, Madelon, and therefore she is not a 
tenth part as accountable. Besides ” (with a 
sigh), “ she is only making a mariage de con- 
venances as hundreds of other women do. No 
doubt she will be happy enough. She will 
have laces and jewels in abundance, and they 
constitute happiness for her. But you — you 
are different.” 

“ I hope so indeed,” said Madelon, shrug- 
ging her shoulders, “ By-the-by, I must not 
forget that I have two items of news for you. 
First, that Mr. Saxton has been formally ac- 
cepted.” 

“ I am not surprised at that,” said Ermine 
— and a vision of Raymond’s face seemed to 
rise before her as she had seen it behind Mar- 
garet’s chair the night before. 

“ Secondly, that Captain Erie, of the good 
ship Adventure, has delighted his loving rela- 
tions by an appearanee this morning.” 

Ermine started, and a flash of rapture came 
over her face ; bathing every feature in such a 
flood of radiance that, for a moment, she 
looked fairly transfigured. 

“ Alan ! ” she cried, eagerly. “ 0 Madelon, 
has Alan come ? ” 

“ Do you suppose I would be likely to tell 
you so, if he had not ? ” 

“ And is he here — down-stairs ? ” 


“SEE, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES!” 


39 


“ I left him at the breakfast-table when I 
came up.” 

And why did you not tell me before ? To 
think that I should have stayed here all this 
while, and my dear boy down-stairs 1 Ring the 
bell for Lena, please, Madelon — I must get up 
at once,” 

“ And make yourself sick.” 

“ Who cares ? But I shall not ; Alan is 
better for me than any tonic. Oh, why don’t 
Lena come ? I am so afraid he will go some- 
where before I can get down ! ” 

“ I don’t think there is the least fear of 
that ; but I can go and tell him that you will 
be down, if you like.” 

“ Yes, thanks, I should like it, if you don’t 
mind. Tell him he has made me well — or no 1 
Don’t tell him that, because he will ask what 
is the matter with me, and I would rather he 
did not hear about my folly last night.” 

“ You may set your mind at rest on that 
score,” said Madelon, coolly. “ I left Aunt 
Victorine giving him a minute account of it 
when I came up.” 

“ 0 Madelon ! how could she ? ” 

“ Nonsense, Ermine ! Could she know by 
intuition that you did not want Captain Erie 
to hear of your flirtation with his brother ? ” 

“ Madelon, how dare you say such a thing ? 
I never flirted with anybody — much less with 
Raymond — in my life.” 

“ Then I have amazingly little idea of what 
flirtation is 1 However, we won’t come to 
blows ; our ‘ little hands were never made,’ 
etc. And, fortunately, here comes Lena to 
keep the peace. Au revoir^ 

Enter Lena, and exit Mademoiselle Lautrec, 
sinffin" as she went. Ermine heard her clear 

O O 

voice lilting “ Chagrin d* Amour''' all the way 
down-stairs ; and, as she went to her toilet, 
she could not help wondering how much heart 
her brilliant cousin really possessed. It was 
a question which everybody who knew Made- 
lon was sooner or later forced to ask, and 
which nobody had ever yet been able to answer 
to his or her satisfaction. 

Ermine, as a general rule, was remarkably 
dilatory about dressing, but on the present oc- 
casion she went to the business with such a 
rush of energy (energy which might have as- 
tonished Lena, if that astute personage had 
not known the cause of it perfectly well), that 
her toilet was soon an accomplished fact, 
every garment donned, every ribbon tied, every 
hair in its place, if hairs so wandering could 


possibly be said to have a place. She gave one 
last glance in the mirror when all was com- 
pleted, saw the graceful figure, clad in misty, 
transparent white, the sweet, low-browed face, 
the delicate, sensitive lips, the wonderful eyes, 
crossed vvith a shade of languor through all 
their happiness, and, giving one last touch to 
the coral-tinted ribbon tied in a careless knot 
at her throat, went down. 

What a day it was which came with fra- 
grant kisses to her languid brow, as she crossed 
the lovely, marble-paved hall, the wide-open 
doors of which let in bounteously the glory 
outside 1 The smile of God seemed to rest 
upon our insignificant planet, making it for a 
time almost as fair as heaven’s self. It was a 
triple bridal of earth and sea and sky, which 
was taking place out where the shining waves 
were coming so gently to kiss the blooming 
land ; and far, far in the lucid depths of 
sky— 

“ Where, through a sapphire sea, the sun 
Sailed like a golden galleon I ” — 

Straight on to that high noontide splendor, 
when men, perforce, must veil their faces 
from the transcending beams of his majesty, 
and only Nature can still look bravely up- 
ward, with “ all her quaint, enamelled eyes ” — 
sending the while sweet odors, like holy 
prayers, on every breath of the capricious 
south wind, which kissed the “plumy palms” 
of the tropics, before it came ' to roll the 
sparkling waves upon their golden sand, and 
die like a god on a royal couch of perfumed 
roses. 

These same roses were sending their mes- 
sages into the sitting-room — filling every nook 
and corner with a fragrance like no other fra- 
grance of earth — when Ermine entered. How 
many people were in the room she did not 
know. On crossing the threshold she saw but 
one face, a bronzed, handsome, thorough-bred 
face, with limpid eyes, half-blue, half-green, as 
if they had caught their tint from the sea on 
which they loved to gaze, smiling a welcome to 
her. 

“ Alan I Alan I I am so glad to see you 
again 1 ” was all she could say, as she felt the 
clasp of those kind hands which embodied 
almost the whole of tenderness that her life 
had known. 

“ Glad to see me ! I wonder if any words 
can make you understand how I have wearied 
for a sight of you — wearied until I knew what 
it was to be homesick even on the blue water I ” 


40 


EBB-TIDE. 


Baid the voice, for the sound of which her soul 
aad thirsted even as men, fainting in a desert, 
thirst for a draught of cool water. “ My pet ! 
my pet ! what have they been doing to you, that 
you look so pale ? ” 

“ I am always pale,” said Ermine, gazing 
up at him with the air of one who, having en- 
tered some long-desired haven of repose, has 
neither wish nor care left. 

“ Pale ! Do you think I don’t know that ? 
You were always a lily, but sueh a pure and 
stately lily. Now you droop your white petals 
wearily.” 

“ Do I, Alan ? ” 

“ Yes, you do. And your eyes — they are 
happy but so languid — as if you were tired in 
spirit. Come here, and let me look at you. 
Unless I have lost all my skill, I can soon tell 
what is the matter with you.” 

“ Nothing is the matter with me now I have 
seen you,” said Ermine with a childish truth- 
fulness. She was a wmman with Raymond — 
a woman who could hold her own against any 
odds. But with Alan she was still as much a 
child — as purely and simply at her ease — as on 
that by-gone day when he had taken her and 
all her misery into his arms. As he led her 
across the floor to the full light of one of those 
windows through whieh the sweet breath of 
the roses came, she noticed for the first time 
that by some rare, happy chance, the room w'as 
empty of all save they two. Where all the 
rest were — her mother, Margaret, Madelon — 
she did not pause to wonder. It was enough 
that Fate for once had been so kind. She sank 
with a deep sigh of satisfaction into the easy- 
chair which Alan drew forward, and folding 
her hands in her lap — they were absurdly 
small, those hands — glanced up at him with an 
expression of perfect beatitude. 

“ Sit down there,” she said, pointing to a 
low chair in front of her. “ I want to look at 
you, and I cannot do so unless you are on a 
level with me. Now, that is it. Alan ” (gaz- 
ing at him critically after he had obeyed), 
“ you — are — browner than you were ! ” 

“ Then w'e are quits, sinee you are whiter 
than you were,” replied Alan, who had man- 
aged to accommodate himself not ungrace- 
fully in the small chair aforesaid, and looked 
as well contented with his quarters as Ermine 
did with hers. 

“ How often must I tell you that my 
paleness is of Nature?” said she. “If you 
talk of it much more, I will buy or borrow 


some rouge and use it for your especial 
benefit.” 

“ That would be to paint the lily, indeed. 
No ” (shaking his head), “ I see how it is : they 
have been bullying you among them all, while 
I was away.” 

“ No, Alan ; on my honor, no.” 

“ On your honor, Minnikin ? ” 

“Yes, on my honor. Ah, you don’t know 
me ” (shaking her head in turn), “ I have such 
a bad temper that nobody could bully me ! ” 

“ Who ought to know you better than I ? 
Didn’t I have the onerous duty of bringing 
you up ? Don’t try to abuse yourself to me, 
for it is perfectly unnecessary, I assure you. 1 
know all the good, and all the bad, of you ; 
and 0 child, child, how little there is of the 
latter ! ” 

“ I am glad you think so, Alan, but indeed 
I am very wdcked.” 

“ Are you ? ” (with a half-amused, half-sad 
then God knows I wish I was wicked, 
too. Perhaps those dear little white hands 
might come and teach me of their own ac- 
cord.” 

The dear little white hands in question 
came, at this, and smoothed back the short, 
thick curls — not exactly gold, nor yet exactly 
brown, but something between the two — from 
the broad, untanned brow which lay under 
them like a snow-drift. 

“Alan,” said the gentle voice, soft and 
sweet as Cordelia’s own, “ I hope my hands 
will wither away, if ever they become too good 
to touch you — you, who alone have kept my 
heart from withering all these years.” 

“ And do you know what you have kept 
mine. Ermine ? ” 

“ A little warm, I trust ; a little conscious 
of prayers and blessings following you when 
you were tossing about on the ocean.” 

“A little pure, too,” said the young man, 
sinking his voice slightly. “ I am sinful enough, 
God knows — it is hard to live a man’s life in 
the world and not to be — but I might have 
been infinitely worse had it not been for you. 
Ermine, you stainless lily, praying for me 
(God bless you ! ) far way. Often your sweet 
eyes have risen and shamed away some devil’s 
thought from my soul. • Often your sweet voice 
has come to still some tempest, such as you 
cannot even dream of, in my heart. I wonder, 
sometimes, what you have ever found worth 
caring for, worth praying for, in a great, rough 
fellow like myself.” 


“SEE, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES!” 


41 


“ What did you find worth caring for in 
the fretful, tiresome child whom you saw and 
eomforted long ago ? ” 

“ I found the warmest heart and the sweet- 
est nature in all the world,” said he, taking the 
tiny, lissome hands and brushing them with 
his heavily-mustached lips. “ How you cried 
yourself to sleep in my arms that day! I 
shall never forget your poor, little, pale, tear- 
drenched face, with its great, dark, tired eyes ! 
Do you know that something in your appear- 
ance when you came into the room a while ago 
recalled that homesick child to me, and I felt 
strongly inclined — foolish enough, wasn’t it ? 
— to comfort you again as I comforted you 
then ? ” 

For the first time in her life Ermine felt 
that she was blushing under Alan’s gaze and 
Alan’s words. She began to wish that she 
was not facing that fiood of relentless light 
from the window, as she felt the roseate flush 
coming like a wave into her alabaster cheeks. 

“ Your presence is comfort enough,” she 
said, meeting the limpid eyes with her soft, 
dark orbs. “ You don’t know how uneasy I 
have been about you. Your letters said you 
would probably be here the first of May, and I 
haunted the Battery daily, until yesterday 
mamma forbade it.” 

“ And so you concluded to stay in bed to- 
day ! Was that the reason I was so grievous- 
ly disappointed when I came in and did not 
find you at the breakfast-table ? ” 

“ No,” said Ermine, appreciating this art- 
ful trap as it deserved. “ I stayed in bed be- 
cause I was not well.” 

“ And why were you not well ? Aunt Vic- 
torine told me that you fainted last night. 
What made you faint ? ” 

“ The reaction from excitement, I suppose. 
I painted hard all day, and heard some glori- 
ous music at night. Between the two I was 
color-mad and sound-drunk. So, when the 
excitement was spent, I made a fool of myself 
and fainted.” 

“ And Raymond — confound him ! — brought 
you home.” 

“ Yes, Raymond brought me home.” 

Silence for a while. Captain Erie gnawed 
his mustache, and looked out of the window, 
while Ermine let her loving gaze linger on Mm. 

“ They will kill you among them,” the for- 
mer said, at last, in a tone of exasperation. 
“ From your mother down, they know nothing 
about you, and every thing they do is harm 


instead of good. The life you are leading 
here is written in your pale face and youi 
weary eyes. Ermine ” (with sudden energy), 
“ you need not deny it, they have been trying 
to make you do something. Was it ” (with 
rising wrath) “to marry Raymond ? ” 

“ Nobody has been trying to make me do 
any thing,” said Ermine, astonished at the 
astuteness of this marine gentleman. “You 
forget that I have my dear guardian to whom 
I could apply, if any thing of the kind were 
attempted. As for Raymond” (indignantly), 
“ I detest him.” 

“ Do you really. Ermine ? ” 

“How can you ask me such a question, 
Alan ? You know I do.” 

“ Then ” (with a deep breath) “ thank God 
for that load gone ! Ermine, my pet, do you 
know that when I came in this morning they 
all hinted, if they did not assert, that you were 
engaged to him ? ” 

“ But you did not believe it, Alan ? ” 

“ Not I, until I saw you. But when you 
came in, like a pale little statue stepped from 
a niche in some cathedral, I thought they 
might have bullied you into measures. But 
you are all right, and I am as happy as an ad- 
miral ! ” 

“ Foolish boy,” but her smile was a caress ; 
“ we have been having a liberal allowance of 
‘ treasons, stratagems, and spoils,’ however. 
Do you know that Margaret is engaged ? ” 

“ And Madelon, too, I hope. There’s in- 
flammable material in that girl, and the sooner 
she is safely tied in the halter of matrimony 
the better. A propos of halters, Ermine, would 
you like to go to ride this afternoon ? ” 

“ Oh, of all things, if I can — if mamma 
will let me ! ” 

“We’ll make her let you,” said he, gayly. 
“ A sailor on land is like a school-boy at home 
for the holidays — a privileged character, whom 
it is everybody’s duty to humor and amuse. 
Here comes Aunt Victorine. I will ask her.” 

Mrs. Erie entered at the moment, and Er- 
mine at once understood why this tke-d-tete 
had been permitted. Astonishment and vexa- 
tion were plainly legible on the lady’s face, as 
she caught sight of that confidential scene at 
the window : she had evidently fancied her 
daughter safe in her chamber and in bed. 

“ You here, Ermine ! ” she said. “ I was 
just on my way to your room to forbid your 
exerting yourself by getting up to-day. I 
should have been there before, but I had to 


42 


EBB-TIDE. 


settle the new governess in her duties with 
Regy and Louise.” (After the departure of 
Miss North, Mrs, Erie had eschewed a resident 
governess and employed day-teachers, who, 
as a general rule, were changed every two or 
three weeks.) “ You look wretchedly,” she 
went on. “ I must insist on your going back 
to your room and lying down, while I send for 
Dr. Cuthbert.” 

“ Dr. Cuthbert does me no good, mamma,” 
said Ermine, wearily. “Please let me stay. 
I feel so much better down here than I did up- 
stairs.” 

“You are excited again,” said Mrs. Erie, 
feeling her pulse. “ The next thing will be 
another fainting-fit. I must insist on your 
resting to-day, even if you don’t see Dr. Cuth- 
bert.” 

“ Let me prescribe for her,” said Captain 
Erie, who had risen, and stood tall and stately 
by the window. “ Let her go to ride this 
afternoon, and I will wager any thing that we 
hear no more of fainting-fits.” 

Ermine looked imploringly into her moth- 
er’s face, but a flint could not have been 
harder than that pleasant, gracious counte- 
nance. 

“ Impossible ! ” she said. “ It would be 
the most perfect folly, and, in her present 
weak state, might bring on a serious illness. 
Ermine, I insist on your going to your room.” 

“Very well, mamma,” said Ermine, rising; 
“ if you insist, I can go. But it is very use- 
less. — Good-by, Alan ! ” 

“Good-by, St. Agnes,” said Alan, smiling, 
as he clasped the soft hand extended to him. 

The clasp, the smile, went up-stairs with 
the poor little, lamb-like martyr, and sweetened 
her exile more than it is possible for words to 
tell. After all, what did any thing else matter ? 
Alan had come ! 


CHAPTER VIL 

STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS. 

Ermine discovered, before long, however, 
that there were a few things which still 
mattered to the degree of discomfort — even 
though Alan had come home. Having been 
remanded to her chamber, and feeling too 
happy and lazy even to paint, she subsided 
into a chair before the open window, and, 
leaning her arms on the broad sill, bathed 


herself in the glory and beauty of the day 
like a very sun-flowei*. Looking out on the 
green, happy earth, the wide, laughing water, 
or far up into the blue, intensely blue sky, 
arching over all things like the dome of some 
vast cathedral, it was easy to be happy even 
without any tangible cause ; easy to lose one’s 
self in vague, sweet dreams, and vaguer, 
sweeter fancies ; easy to forget that there 
were such things as sin and suffering on earth, 
that, under this hyacinthine sky, hearts were 
breaking, sobs were uttered, curses breathed, 
death-gasps given, souls, alike of sinners and 
of saints, going forth on the wings of every 
idle, golden minute, to face the justice of Him 
who, mid all the mad carnival of human mis- 
ery, insanity, and crime, is still “ patient be- 
cause eternal.” On many a changeless, dead 
face throughout the smiling land, these quiver- 
ing sunbeams fell, yet they brought none the 
less of life-giving warmth in their touch when 
they glanced athwart the happy face, pillowed 
on a pair of soft, white arms, in this open 
window. 0 lovely and most loving face ! It 
was well, indeed, that the world had little to 
do with your short life, that its kiss- was never 
laid on your sweet lips, or w^eighed down earth- 
ward the lids of your pathetic eyes. It was 
truly well, for, among all those glorious bless- 
ings and tender promises which we call “ the 
beatitudes,” w^hat so glorious, what so full of 
tenderness as the one which tells us that 
“ blessed are the clean of heart : for they shall 
see God ? ” 

But golden as Ennine’s day-dream was, 
it did not remain uninterrupted. In such 
trances, we literally “ count time by heart- 
throbs, not by moments,” so she had no 
means of telling w^hat exact number of sec- 
onds elapsed from the time she sank into her 
chair, to the time when a knock sounded on 
the door. “ Come in,” she said, lazily, and, 
lifting her face, looked round as the door 
opened. To her surprise, Margaret stood on 
the threshold. 

“ I suppose I may come in,” said the lat- 
ter, hesitating a moment under her step-sis- 
ter’s involuntary glance of surprise. “ I 
thought you were in bed. Ermine.” 

Oh, certainly, come in,” said Ermine, ris- 
ing and drawing forward a chair. “ No : I am 
not in bed — I dressed to go down and see 
Alan, but mamma insisted on my coming back 
to my room, though ” (with a sigh) “ I am 
sure it was very unnecessary. It is kind of 


STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS. 


43 


you to come and see me, Margaret. Sit 
down.” 

Margaret sat down — a billowy mass of 
blue drapery, crowned by a lovely but most 
pettish face. Signs of storm, past, present, 
and to come, were written on the vivid coral 
lips, in the violet eyes half veiled by their 
milk-white lids, on the brow like smoothest 
marble or finest satin, drawm just now into a 
petulant frown of discontent. 

“ I am sure I think you look as well as 
usual. Ermine,” she said, with a half-offended, 
half-aggrieved intonation of voice. “ Fainting 
seems to agree with you ; and it was a very 
nice way to get up an interesting scene, and 
let everybody know the degree of your inti- 
macy with Raymond.” 

“ You are mistaken,” said Ermine, coldly 
— she was so well used to the beautiful god- 
dess’s ebullitions of spleen, that neither the 
tone nor the form of this address surprised 
her — “ fainting does not agree with me, for 
Alan says he never saw me look so badly ; 
and, as for getting up a scene to let everybody 
know my intimacy with Raymond, considering 
that I am not intimate with him, I don’t see 
why I should have wished to leave the im- 
pression on anybody’s mind.” 

“ Not intimate with him ! ” repeated Mar- 
garet, in a high key. “ Not intimate with 
him, when you are out together at all hours 
of the day and night, when you faint in his 
arms, and when ” (a still higher key) “ every- 
body says you ought to be engaged to him, if 
you are not ! ” 

“ Did anybody ever say that to you, Mar- 
garet ? ” 

“ Yes, plenty of people — Mrs. Dunwardin 
said it when she went away last night.” 

“ Then give Mrs. Dunwardin my compli- 
ments the next time you see her, and request 
her to be kind enough to mind her own busi- 
ness.” 

“ Oh, it is very fine to carry off matters in 
that way ; but telling people to mind their 
own business — which is very uncivil and un- 
lady-like, by-the-way — won’t keep them from 
talking. Of course you don’t care, though ” 
(relapsing into grievance) ; “ as long as you 
can play off Raymond against Alan, and Alan 
against Raymond, it makes no matter to you 
what people say.” 

“ Margaret, such nonsense is not worth 
getting angry over,” said Ermine, with deter- 
mined calmness, though two scarlet spots be- 


gan to burn in her white checKS. “Will you 
excuse me if I ask you to change the subject ? 
I am very tired of my unfortunate escapade of 
last night ; and Raymond’s name is fairly hate- 
ful to me ! ” 

“ Oh, no doubt it is hateful to you since 
Alan has come back ! ” cried Margaret, with 
quivering lips, and eyes that blazed through 
all their odalisque softness. “ It was very 
far from being hateful to you when you stayed 
on the Battery till after midnight last night, 
how'ever ! I wonder you are not ashamed to 
play fast-and-loose in such a disgraceful man- 
ner ! ” 

“ Margaret, I won’t tolerate this ! ” said 
Ermine, rising. “ You have no possible right 
to speak to me in such a manner, and I will 
not listen to it.” 

“You Bhall listen to it ! ” said Margaret, 
rising, too, and stamping her foot to give 
emphasis to her words. “ I have the best 
possible right to speak, for you took Ray- 
mond from me to make a toy of him for your 
amusement. Don’t I love him better than 
anybody else in the world ? ” cried the girl, 
with a ring of pathos through all the vitupera- 
tive passion of her voice — “ and am I not 
forced to marry this horrid Saxton, while you 
— you who might be happy with him, throw 
him away for a disgrace — ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Ermine, with eyes blazing 
in turn. “ Say what you please to me, and, 
for the sake of Christian charity, I will bear 
it; but you shall rwi say any thing about 
Alan ! I won’t stand that ! ” 

“ Really, it seems to me that Alan is my 
cousin, and that unless you are engaged to 
him, he is nothing to you.” 

“ He is a hundred times more to me than 
any cousinship can make him to you ; and, as 
I told you a moment ago, you may say any 
thing you please to me, but you shall say 
nothing of him.” 

“ I have no desire to say any thing of him 
— there is nothing to be said. I only want to 
tell you that I might have forgiven you for 
taking Raymond from me if you had loved 
him and married him ; but that I will never, 
never forgive you for making him leave me, 
only that you might treat him like this ! ” 

For the first time Ermine saw how this 
beautiful, tame face — this face so often petu- 
lant, so rarely moved by any deeper expression 
— ^looked, when convulsed, changed, intensi- 
fied by the master-passion of human naturci 


44 


EBB-TIDE. 


the passion which had stirred even this shal- 
low nature to its depths. Through her preoc- 
cupation — her pity mingled with indignation — 
the quick artist-eye caught, the retentive ar- 
tist - mind remembered, the transformation, 
and many a long day afterward the same face 
stood out clearly on canvas — a loveliness elo- 
quent of rage and scorn. 

“ Margaret,” she said, gently, “ stop a mo- 
ment, and be reasonable. How did I ever 
make Raymond leave you ? Have I not 
discouraged him always, and always plainly 
showed that I did not like him ? Do you 
think that, because you find him attractive, 
everybody else must do the same? I assure 
you that, if any thing could make me despise 
him more than I have always done, it has 
been the manner in which he has treated you.” 

“ It is no affair of yours how he has treated 
me,” cried Margaret, with a foolish woman’s 
illogical wrath. “ Do you suppose I imagine 
that he gave me up for yow ” she went on, 
with a scornful laugh. “ It is some consola- 
tion that it was for your fortune, not for your- 
self, that he left me.” 

“ I am perfectly well aware of that fact,” 
said Ermine, coldly. “ But I cannot realize 
the consolation of it. One would not despise 
a man for being fickle, but one would despise 
him for being mercenary.” 

“ And do you fiatter yourself that your new 
lover is any more disinterested ? ” asked Mar- 
garet, bitterly. 

Ermine drew up her slender klance figure 
haughtily. “ I do not know of whom you are 
speaking,” she said, proudly. 

“ You may find out some day,” said Mar- 
garet with a slight gasp — a premonition of 
hysteria — in her throat. “But it is hard that 
I am the only one to be sacrificed,” she went 
on, sinking back into her chair, while a shower 
of sudden tears washed all the fire out of her 
eyes, “ You are not made to marry Raymond 
— though he told me only last night that it is 
a matter of life and death to him that you 
should do so — while I am sacrificed to this 
hor — horrible man whom I detest ! ” 

“You are not a Circassian,” said Ermine, 
with an inflection of unconscious contempt in 
her voice. “ Nobody could sacrifice you, if you 
did not sacrifice yourself.” 

“ It is easy for you to talk ! ” said Margaret, 
indignantly. “You are rich, and your own 
mistress ; nobody can force you to do any thing. 
But I am different.” 


“You are a puppet in Raymond’s hands, 
and for Raymond’s selfish, mercenary pur 
poses,” said Ermine, indignantly, in her turn. 
“ Do you suppose that I don’t know that you 
accepted Mr. Saxton at his bidding ? It is in- 
comprehensible to me that you should suffer 
his influence over you, when he uses it for such 
an end as this. Margaret, for Heaven’s sake, 
ask yourself could he ever have loved you 
and yet urge you — force you — to such a step 
as this ? ” 

“ What can you know of his love ? ” asked 
Margaret, blazing out once more. “ Is it im- 
possible for any one to love me? Plenty of 
people have done so besides Raymond ; you 
know that as well as I do. He did love me, 
but he said — he still says — that we are too 
poor to marry, that we should only drag each 
other down, instead of benefiting each other. 
That I must sacrifice myself to make a brilliant 
match, and he — and he — ” 

“ And he will magnanimously sacrifice him- 
self to my fortune,” said Ermine, smiling sar- 
castically. “ It is quite an able programme, 
and I congratulate you upon carrying out your 
share of it so well. I wonder ” (this to her- 
self, as she turned and looked out of the win- 
dow) “ if that man ever spoke the truth in all 
his life ? ” 

But meanwhile Margaret’s second explosion, 
like the first, was quickly drenched in a lach- 
rymal shower-bath, and noticing that the sobs 
were momently becoming more hysterical. Er- 
mine began to think of some mode to allay this 
tempest in a teapot. 

“ Margaret,” she said, “ if the idea of marry- 
ing Mr. Saxton makes you- so unhappy, why 
not ask your father to break the engage- 
ment ? ” 

No answer — only louder sobs, and more 
threateningly hysterical signs about the throat. 

“ I have told Raymond that I can never 
marry him,” Ermine continued, thinking that 
this information might prove comforting. “ If 
your engagement with Mr. Saxton were broken, 
you might — ” 

What Miss Erie might or might not have 
done can only be surmised, for the consoling 
suggestion was very abruptly cut short. 

“ I can do no — thing b — but marry Mr. Sax- 
ton ! ” cried Margaret, as vehemently as her 
sobs would permit. “ Somebody must besa — 
sacrificed, and of course I am the one ! You 
can do as you pie — please, but I hate you 
w — worse than anybody in the world, and 7 


STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS. 


45 


will never, never forgive you for the way you 
have treated Raymond ! ” 

“Good Heavens, Margaret ! ” — ^began Er- 
mine, confounded by the extraordinary logic of 
this resentment. 

But Margaret was past listening to any 
thing by this time. Violent hysterics set in, ac- 
companied by the usual kicking and screaming 
symptoms, and Ermine flew to the bell. Her 
first energetic peal brought Lena hurrying up- 
stairs — for it was not often that her mistress’s 
bell rang like this — and, as Margaret was by this 
time very nearlj unmanageable, Mrs. Erie was 
summoned. It was surprising how her pres- 
ence, the first moment she crossed the thresh- 
old, had a sedative effect upon her step- 
daughter. The screams died away, the kick- 
ing subsided, and even the sobs soon became 
less convulsive. By the time that Madelon, 
the governess, the children, and half a dozen 
servants arrived on the scene of action. Miss 
Erie had subsided into an unconscious condi- 
tion, and was borne away to her own room — 
notwithstanding Madelon’s unfeeling assur- 
rance to the company in general that she was 
sure she could walk — without further resist- 
ance — a beautiful but decidedly heavy piece 
of inert flesh and blood. 

The train moved away after her — all ex- 
cept Mrs. Erie, who, giving a few directions to 
Madelon (over which the latter shrugged her 
shoulders), came back into Ermine’s chamber 
and closed the door. 

“ My patience is almost exhausted with that 
girl,” she said, sinking down into the chair 
which Margaret had vacated. “I scarcely 
know whether her folly or her affectation is 
most trying. What brought on this scene. Er- 
mine? ” 

Now, Ermine was perfectly well aware that 
her mother knew as well as herself what had 
brought on the scene, but she had lived long 
enough with Mrs. Erie to give the answer which 
was expected of her. 

“Margaret has been talking about her 
aversion to marrying Mr. Saxton,” she said, 
“and she worked herself into the state in 
which you found her by simply giving way to 
ler excitement.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mrs. Erie, with a world of 
meaning in the single interjection, and then 
she looked full into her daughter’s eyes. 
“Was she talking of anybody besides Mr. 
Saxton ? ” she asked, with a slight shade of sig- 
nificance. 


“ Yes,” answered Ermine, indifferently. 
“ She was talking of Raymond.” 

“ What of him ? ” 

“ Indeed, mamma, that is hard to say, for 
her complaints were rather obscure and very 
inconsistent. She was apparently angry that 
Raymond had transferred his attentions from 
her to myself, and yet outraged that I had not 
accepted them. I did not see the reason of 
it,” she concluded with a tired sigh. 

“ Did you expect reason from a jealous and 
very silly woman ? ” asked Mrs. Erie, con- 
temptuously. “ I am sure you know Margaret 
well enough to be aware how little credit is 
due to any thing she may say. She has ac- 
cepted Mr. Saxton of her own accord, yet she 
gives herself the airs of a martyr, and, because 
she has chosen to fancy herself in love with 
Raymond, she thinks that she has a fee-simple 
right over him. You will be doing him a 
grievous injustice. Ermine ” (this very earnest- 
ly), “ if you allow Margaret’s jealous folly to 
prejudice you in any way against him.” 

“ Margaret’s jealous folly, as you term it, 
mamma, does not weigh with me in the least ; 
but what I have seen with my own eyes 
and heard with my own ears, I confess that I 
believe.” 

“ You mean — ? ” 

“ I mean that if Raymond ever loved any- 
body besides himself, he loved Margaret, and 
that he gave her up — ^nay, more, he forced her 
to engage herself to a man whom she detests — 
that he might be free to devote himself to my 
fortune.” 

“ Ermine, I am astonished at you ! It is in- 
comprehensible to me that you should let Mar- 
garet’s absurd complaints weigh with you for 
a moment. There is not one word of truth in 
what she asserts concerning Raymond. 1 
know this. With regard to Mr. Saxton, no 
doubt she made you believe that she is a victim 
to her family, when in reality she is only a 
victim to her own mercenary ambition. I 
should think that by this time you would ap- 
preciate her vanity and selfishness sufficiently 
to rate her sentiments as they deserve.” 

“ I think I do,” said Ermine, quietly. 

“ And I should think you might know that 
I have no possible reason for representing 
matters in any but their true light.” 

No answer to this. Ermine was gazing out 
of the window at the blue sky beyond, and she 
did not withdraw her eyes or utter a sylla«- 
ble. 


46 


EBB-TIDE. 


“ While I am on this subject,” Mrs. Erie 
continued, a little sharply, “ I must say a few 
words concerning the occurrence of last night. 
In the first place, may I ask for an explana- 
tion of your fainting ? Raymond, of course, 
gave none.” 

“ There is very little to give, mamma. I 
was excited, and fainted from the reaction — 
that is all.” < 

“ What excited you ! ” 

“ The music first, I presume, and my con- 
versation with Raymond afterward.” 

“And may I beg to know the subject of a 
conversation which took you down to the Bat- 
tery at eleven o’clock at night ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you feel any interest in it.” 
Then she recounted substantially what she had 
told Madelon, all of which, by the same token, 
Mrs. Erie had heard before, adding when she 
concluded, “ I am glad to tell you this, mamma, 
because I am anxious that there should be an 
end of all expectations that Raymond and I 
should ever marry. You may believe me when 
I say that there are no possible circumstances 
which could bring such a thing to pass.” 

“However sorry I may be to hear this, and 
on your account I am sorry,” said Mrs. Erie 
with dignity, “ I must beg to correct you on 
one point. You speak as if there had been 
some plot or plan to marry you to Raymond. 

I owe it to myself and to my husband to de- 
clare that we have never done more than wish 
to see you established in life under the protec- 
tion of a man who, notwithstanding the inter- 
ested motives which you impute to him, is suf- 
ficiently attached to you to bear with your pe- 
culiar and most trying disposition. That we 
ever formed this wish, you owe to yourself, and 
the heartless manner in which you have flirted 
with him.” 

“ Flirted with him — with Raymond ! 
Mamma, how can you say such a thing, when 
you — you alone — have always thrown us to- 
gether ? ” 

“ Did I throw you together last night ? ” 
asked Mrs. Erie. “ You know my rules — you 
know how much I am opposed to any thing like 
the fast manners of the day — yet you wander 
off at midnight with Raymond, and finally 
make your appearance, before half a dozen 
people, in his arms.” 

“ Mamma ! ” The poor, much-tried blood 
mounted in a torrent over neck and face. 
“Consider for a moment — how could I help 
U?” 


“ Not understanding the eccentricities of a 
sensitive temperament, that is more than I can 
answer,” said Mrs. Erie, coldly. “ If it w’as 
necessary for you to faint after the concert, it 
was at least not necessary that you should 
have gone dowm to the Battery to accomplish 
it. I confess that I am losing patience with 
your fancies and caprices. Ermine,” she went 
on more sternly ; “ and, since you seem to have 
no regard for what people will say of your con- 
duct, I must endeavor to have some for you. 
If you were engaged to Raymond, the gossips 
might hold their tongues. Since you are noi 
engaged to him, I can scarcely imagine how se- 
vere the strictures will be on you ; and, natu- 
rally, also, on me.” 

Ermine was silent. She knew from long 
experience that there was nothing to be said 
when her mother took this tone. Justification 
was useless — still more useless any thing like 
softening or appeal. 

“ I know perfectly well where your spirit 
of rebellion has been learned,” Mrs. Erie went 
on, in the same hard, passionless voice. “ Your 
guardian has always encouraged you in defy- 
ing my wishes, and you think that you will 
soon be the legal mistress of your own actions. 
But none the less, one thing is certain — so 
long as you remain under my control, so long 
I shall insist upon your keeping within the 
bounds of decorum. I should never have al- 
lowed your flirtation with Raymond to go to 
the shameful length it has done, if I had not 
supposed that you meant to marry him. Hav- 
ing had this warning, I shall certainly not 
allow you to enter upon another, as you seem 
disposed to do.” 

Still silence. Sometimes — often, in fact — 
the only hope of restraining a torrent is to 
keep the flood-gates resolutely shut. What Er- 
mine would have said if she had unclosed her 
lips for the passage of even one word, there is 
no telling. It was not because she did not 
feel, that she was silent. On the contrary, 
burning indignation strove for expression, side 
by side with that sickening sense of being 
wholly misjudged and cruelly misunderstood, 
than which earth has no pang more poignant. 
But she was resolutely silent. What good 
would it do to speak? She had learned from 
long and bitter experience that her mother and 
herself were like two jarring chords in music, 
never by any chance giving forth a note in imi- 
son. This realization had wellnigh turned her 
child’s heart to gall, and it had hardened her 


THE ENCHANTED LAND. 


47 


face now into something of a statue’s white, 
steadfast immobility. 

“ Understand this,” said Mrs. Erie, raising 
her voice not more than a shade of a semitone, 
but still enough to mark how keenly she was 
provoked by the reticence which met her like 
a granite wall, “ I desire to hear no more of 
your romantic, childish nonsense about Alan 
Erie, and I expressly forbid your appearance in 
Dublic with him, or taking any rides or drives 
of the kind which he proposed this morning. 
You have been already sufficiently talked 
about ; and it is my duty to conduct you, since 
you do not seem capable of conducting your- 
self.” A pause — then, sharply : “ Do you hear 
me. Ermine ? ” 

“ I hear you, mamma.” 

“ Do you intend to obey me ? ” 

“Is that question necessary, mamma? 
Have I ever disobeyed you when you explicitly 
stated your wishes ? ” 

“ Your conduct is indeed most exemplary,” 
said Mrs. Erie, bitterly. “ You obey my 
wishes in the letter, and make it the business 
of your life to violate them in the spirit. My 
duty is none the less my duty, however, and I 
am determined to give no further sanction to an 
intimacy which has already done you nothing 
but harm.” 

She uttered the last words in a tone of de- 
cision which left no room for demur, if Er- 
mine had been inclined to make any. But the 
girl received this sentence with the same pas- 
sive calm which had characterized her manner 
all along ; and, after waiting for a moment for 
the rejoinder which did not come, Mrs. Erie rose 
majestically and swept from the room. 

Ermine remained motionless — changing 
neither feature nor expression — for some time 
after the door had closed on her mother’s soft 
draperies. Then something like a shiver of 
passion seemed suddenly to pass over and shake 
her from head to foot. 

“ I comprehend it perfectly,” she said, half- 
aloud. “It is my punishment for rejecting 
Raymond. Oh, if they tried to make me hate 
him, could they do it any better ? ” 

She rose from her seat restlessly and paced 
the floor for a minute. It seemed so hard, 
so cruel ! She had longed for Alan with such 
heart-sick longing, and, now that he had come, 
she was not allowed to be happy for one day. 
Even her intercourse with him — that joyous 
freedom of manner which it had been so much 
pleasure to indulge — was placed under a con- 


straint by this new talk of flirtation and love 
and marriage. One of her old floods of child- 
ish grief came over the poor girl — poor, though 
an heiress — as, throwing herself upon her 
bed, she buried her face in her hands, sobbing 
bitterly. 

“ 0 Alan, dear Alan, if I were only a child, 
so that you could come and comfort me ! ” she 
said. “It seems as if my heart will break. 
How they all are banded against me — mamma 
because I cannot obey her wishes ; Margaret, 
because I have stood between Raymond and 
herself ; Madelon, because she is selfishly bent 
on her own fortune. If ever there comes to 
me a time of desperate strait or extremity, may 
God help me, for I cannot count upon one 
friend among them all ! ” 

Looking back afterward, Ermine remem- 
bered this thought, but it is good to believe 
and to trust that, in any time of desperate 
“ strait or extremity,” God does help those for 
whom’ mortal help is not. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE ENCHANTED LAND. 

Ermine spent the entire morning and the 
whole long afternoon in her own room. Of 
course, she could have come forth if she had 
chosen — since Mrs. Erie’s purpose had been 
accomplished when she ended that tender inter- 
view with Alan — but it may have been that 
the girl was glad enough of the rest which is 
doubly sweet after combat or excitement. At 
all events, she did not appear at dinner, and it 
was only when twilight was trembling softly 
over the earth that she came down-stairs. The 
large, cool, fragrant house was wholly empty, 
and as silent as that enchanted palace on which 
Merlin laid his spell. Ermine wandered through 
all the rooms, finding no trace of human pres- 
ence anywhere. The beauty of the dying May 
day seemed to have tempted, all Charleston 
abroad, and every member of the household 
save herself had caught the infection. She 
was all alone — alone to do what see pleased, 
and go where she pleased, to pace back and 
forth, and wander here and there, in luxurious 
idleness of motion. She strolled into the 
garden and decked herself with roses, like a 
Greek divinity ; then came back and sat in the 
open window with “ Tennyson ” in her lap, not 
reading save by snatches, and repeating to her. 


48 


EBB-TIDE. 


self, whenever her eye rested on the fair scene 
beyond, the exquisite “ Move eastward, happy 
earth.” If she and Tennyson had had the 
sunset all to themselves, this would have been 
very pleasant ; but, unfortunately, there were 
numbers of other people privileged to enjoy 
the hour, people riding, driving, sauntering 
past, bowing to the pretty face framed in the 
window, and necessitating a bow in return. It 
seemed to Ermine that everybody whom she 
knew went by — everybody except the one for 
whom her eyes were watching and her heart 
longing. Even Major Hastings rode past, and 
uncovered his handsome head — wondering a 
good deal at the stiff inclination which was all 
he received in acknowledgment. It was just 
after this that Ermine rose. “ It is a bore to 
sit in the window and be bowed at,” she said, 
pettishly ; and then she sauntered away toward 
the back drawing-room. Twilight, in which it 
was impossible to read — 

“ Labor’s brief armistice I 
Best, loveliest interlude of dark and light — ” 

had already gathered here ; so, putting down 
her volume, she went to the piano, lifted its 
lid, and, slowly touching “the beautiful cold 
keys,” which gave back lovingly their rich 
tones under her hands, began to play the mar- 
vellous “ Moonlight Sonata.” 

She played it once — twice — thrice — not so 
much because she loved the repetition of its 
melody, as because it chanced to suit her mood, 
and the tender, passionate chords made an 
accompaniment to her thoughts, which never 
flowed so smoothly, never so sweetly, as to the 
sound of music. She was well on in the third 
repetition, playing, as it were, unconsciously, 
with her eyes turned on a glimpse of the 
“ fringes of the faded eve,” seen through a vine- 
draped window near by, and her mind far 
away, when the sound of a distant footstep 
caught her ear. Instantly the white hands 
stopped short on the ivory keys, she turned 
her head — the breath suspended on her parted 
lips — and listened. 

After a moment, her listening was re- 
warded. Footsteps crossed the hall, crossed 
the front drawing-room, came toward her re- 
treat, the silken curtains of the arch were 
pushed aside, and in the opening there ap- 
peared — a dog literally as large as a pony, a 
magnificent creature all tawny gold, dashed 
with black, whose hair, soft as silk, curled 
round him in every direction, and whose large, 


bright eyes were fuU of indescribable beauty 
and expression. This formidable visitor en- 
tered with the stately tread of a lion, his plumy 
tail drooping, his superb head erect, his whole 
face — where gentleness and strength were so 
marvellously mingled — full of vivid expectation. 
At sight of him. Ermine made one spring from 
her music-stool. 

“ Nix ! ” she cried, joyfully. “ Oh, my dear, 
dear old fellow, is it you ? ” 

Nix gave one short, hoarse bark of de- 
lighted recognition, and, to attest that it was 
indeed he, then rushed full at her, wagging his 
tail like an insane dog, and fairly knocking her 
into a convenient chair with the weight of the 
two monstrous paws which went at once to her 
shoulders, while her hands clasped eagerly 
round the silken mane that covered his im- 
mense throat. It was an affecting embrace, 
only Ermine, being much the smaller, had much 
the worst of it. She was indeed in rapid course 
of suffocation, and Nix’s large, red tongue was 
licking her face with unmolested delight, when 
fortunately a tall gentleman stepped from be- 
hind the arch and came to the rescue. 

“ Nix ! you scamp ! — have done ! ” he 
cried in a tone which Nix at once obeyed by 
dropping on all-fours and proceeding to make 
a comma of himself. — “ Ermine, are you not 
almost smothered ? The rascal is overpower- 
ingly affectionate if you let him be ! — No, sir — 
you’ve done embracing enough for once — stand 
back ! ” 

“ Oh, don’t scold him ! ” said Ermine, re- 
covering her breath. “ Bless his great, splen- 
did, affectionate heart ! — he was so glad to see 
me. — Nix, Nix ! Oh, you beauty ! ” — as Nix 
came and laid his broad head in her lap — wag- 
ging his tail, meanwhile, in the same frantic 
manner — “ you are more magnificent than 
ever! — 0 Alan, what a grand, sweet face! 
Does it not remind you of Lord Byron’s epitaph 
on his dog ? ” 

“ What ! the verses about — 

‘ To mark a Mend’s remains, these stones arise— 

I never had but one, and here he lies.’ 

I don’t see how that is applicable to Nix — or 
to me, either,” said Alan, standing by, and 
looking tenderly at the hands that were st rok- 
ing and caressing Nix’s silken ears and head. 

“Pshaw!” said Ermine, laughing. “That 
was not what I meant. Don’t you remember 
the inscription on the tombstone? — Nix, dear 
old fellow, I hope it may be many a long daj 


THE ENCHANTED LAND. 


49 


before you need a tombstone, but, if you ever 
do, those words shall go on it.” 

“ Nix shall be buried at sea, he loves it 
as dearly as I do ! ” said Nix’s master, drawing 
a deep arm-chair forward, and sinking into it. 
“ Nix, you unruly beggar, come here ! Now ” 
— as Nix obeyed — “ lie down and keep quiet 
while Miss St. Amand pays you a compliment. 
No ” — catching hold of his silken mane, as he 
was springing back to Ermine — “ we’ve had 
enough of that. I don’t wonder your head is 
turned by the sight of her — so is mine, for the 
matter of that. But discipline is discipline. 
Down, sir, down ! ” 

Nix crouched in couchant, leonine fashion 
on the floor, but kept his plume-like tail waving 
in the air, and his liquid eyes fastened on his 
master’s face. 

“ Let him alone,” said Ermine. “ He does 
not annoy me in the least.” 

“ He annoys me, however,” said Alan, 
frankly. “I am jealous of the scamp ^when 
you fondle and caress him so. Not but that I 
am fond enough of him myself. We are in- 
separable companions on shipboard — arn’t we, 
Nix ? ” — Nix beat his tail assentingly on the 
floor. — “ You’ve had a splendid bath and a new 
collar to-day, haven’t you, old fellow ? That 
was in honor of Miss St. Amand. I brought you 
up to see her because she has a dear, little kind 
heart, and is not a bit ashamed to recognize 
old friends, even if they are disreputably fond 
of the sea.” 

Here Nix gave a howl, being perfectly well 
aware that these remarks were addressed to 
himself, and thinking that civility required a 
reply. 

“ Hold' your tongue, will you ! ” said his 
master. “ Keep quiet till you’re asked to 
speak ! — Now, Ermine, let us have the epi- 
taph. Deuce take my memory if I remember 
a word of it ! ” 

“ I think the deuce must have taken your 
memory if you could forget it,” said'Ermine. 
“Let me see! — dear me I I hope /have not 
forgotten it 1 Don’t laugh, Alan — I remember 
at least that he — the dog, that is — ‘ possessed 
beauty without vanity, strength without inso- 
lence, and courage without ferocity.’ I also 
remember that ‘ This praise which would be 
unmeaning flattery above human ashes, is but 
a just tribute to the memory of Boatswain, a 
dog ’ — and I think that the description suits 
Nix exactly.” 

“ ‘Beauty without vanity, strength without 

4 


insolence, and courage without ferocity ’ — so it 
does ! — Get up, Nix, and make a bow. If ever 
you have a tombstone, we will certainly 
borrow Boatswain’s epitaph for you. Ermine, 
isn’t it amazing that the rascal knows you after 
all this time ? ” 

“ And he was so young when he went away 1 
Do you remember how furious Margaret was the 
day he came in dripping wet, and spoiled her 
new poplin ? ” 

“ Don’t I indeed ! I only brought him this 
afternoon because I knew they would all be 
out, and I hoped you might be in. Are you 
still a prisoner ? ” 

“No. I stayed at home of my own ac- 
cord, partly because I was lazy, and partly 
because I thought you might come. I can’t 
afford to lose any of your society, especially 
since — ” 

“ Especially since what ? ” asked he, as she 
suddenly paused. 

But Ermine had remembered that dreadful 
word “ flirtation,” and the tide of her candor 
was abruptly stopped. She hesitated, and 
blushed in such an unusual manner that, even 
in the dusk room. Captain Erie’s quick eye de- 
tected the suffusion. 

“ What is it, little one ? ” he asked, leaning 
forward. “ Don’t deny that there is something 
— I see it In your telltale face. Nix and I are 
ready to receive your confidence, and to guard 
it sacredly. What is it ? ” 

“ It is nothing of any importance,” said Er- 
mine, turning her back on the light, as she felt 
herself blushing still more. “ I only meant 
— that is, I didn’t mean — I only said — ” 

“ You only didn’t say exactly what you 
should have said,” interrupted the young man, 
cutting her confused sentences short. “ Come, 
Ermine, who is your best friend in the 
world ? ” 

“You, Alan.” (Without a second’s hesi- 
tation.) 

“ Of course I am — and, being your best 
friend, isn’t it my business to see that you 
come to no harm, and ” — the genial brows 
knitted slightly here — “ that nobody dares to 
trouble you ? ” 

“You absurd boy! — who should trouble 
me ? ” 

“ Somebody has been troubling, you, how- 
ever. — We see that plainly, don’t we, Nix ? ” — 
Nix growled deeply. — “Ermine, you affirmed 
positively this morning that nobody had been 
bullying you. I wonder if you could put 


50 


EBB-TIDE. 


your hand on your heart and say the same I 
thing now ? ” 

“ Indeed, Alan, I — I don’t know. — Mamma 
said something this morning — ” 

“ Exactly. I’d have felt safe in wagering 
any thing that she did. And that something 
was about me — was it not ? ” 

“ How could you know ? ” 

“ How could I help knowing, with her face 
to enlighten me this morning, and your face to 
enlighten me this afternoon ? Come, Ermine,” 
— leaning luxuriously back and watching her 
closely with the limpid, sea-colored eyes — 

“ make a clean breast of it and have done. 
You can’t hurt petite. I care for nobody’s 
good opinion but yours — and yours, thank 
God, I have! As for madame ma tante — I 
know of old in what estimation she holds 
me.” 

“ She said nothing against you, Alan. I 
would not have stood that.” 

“ She might have accused me of every crime 
in the Decalogue, and I should have forgiven 
her much sooner than for making you look as 
pale as you do — or rather as you did. Some- 
how or other, you’ve managed to get some 
color within the last ten minutes, and I am cu- 
rious to know the cause. Who are you blush- 
ing about? I am sure it would never enter 
your head to blush about me ! ” 

“I’m not blushing about anybody,” said 
Ermine, indignantly. “ If I am a little flushed, 
it is owing to the heat, and to Nix.” 

“ Oh 1 It is owing to the heat and to 
Nix — is it ? Well I will accept the explana- 
tion (to save time), and return to the point 
under discussion. What did ma tante say 
of me ? ” 

Ermine moved restlessly under the half- 
laughing but determined eyes, shrugged her 
shoulders, and finally said petulantly, “ Noth- 
ing that you will care to hear.” 

“ But I do care to hear,” said he, leaning 
forward again, “ Ermine, don’t tantalize so — 
what was it ? ” A pause — then impatiently : 

“ Good Heavens, child 1 why should you hesi- 
tate ? Do you suppose I care for any thing she 
might say ? Of course the longer you w^ait, 
the more terrible I shall think it, and, if you 
don’t mind, you will make an anti-climax of it 
at last,” 

“ Who cares about an anti-climax ? I don’t 
mean to tell you at all.” 

“ Then I shall simply have to guess until I 
find out. Of course, it must have been some- 


I thing about you, too, or you would not be so 
reluctant to repeat it. Eureka ! I have it : she 
said I meant to make love to you for your for 
tune I ” 

“ She never even hinted such a thing ! ’ 
cried Ermine — and how hotly the blood rushed 
over neck and brow again. 

“Then what was it, you absurd little 
Sphinx? If you don’t tell me, I wiU set Nix on 
you, and let him do his worst.” 

“ Alan,” said she, tragically, “ I can't tell 
you. I cried over it desperately, but I am sure 
you would only laugh.” 

“ I should never laugh at any thing you 
thought worth crying over, you may be sure of 
that ! ” 

“Well then — for one thing, mamma says I 
must not ride with you any more.” 

She thought this would be a terrible blow, 
and she was rather disappointed when Alan’s 
only comment was a cool — 

“ Indeed 1 ” 

“ Nor walk with you, either.” 

“ Nor talk with me, I presume ? ” 

“ Nothing was said about talking, but I don’t 
think we shall be able to do much of it, for she 
also says — ” 

Here the voice stopped short again, in em- 
barrassed silence. Captain Erie was still 
leaning forward, absently caressing his mus- 
tache with one sunburnt hand, while his eyes 
followed every change of the mobile face be- 
fore him. “Well, what is it she also says ? ” 
he asked, dryly, as Ermine paused. 

“ She says that I flirted with Raymond,” 
cried Ermine, with a burst of determined in- 
dignation, “ and that — and that I shall not flirt 
with you too ! ” 

“ How good of her to take such care of 
me 1 ” said he, ironically. “ But if you have 
a fancy for flirting, Ermine — an amusement 
which, by-the-way, I took to be Madelon’s and 
Margaret’s monopoly — I hope you won’t hesi- 
tate to make use of me.” 

“ I knew you would laugh,” said Ermine, 
struggling with an inclination to tears, “ and 
I really think it is very — very unkind of 
you ! ” 

“If I laugh, it is because I should like 
amazingly to do something else ; and that be- 
ing impossible, I must find a vent for my feel- 
ings some other way,” said he. “ In short, Er- 
mine, the upshot of the whole matter is, that 
you and I are to be kept from seeing any 
thing whatever of each other.” 


THE ENCHANTED LAND. 


51 


“Yes,” said Ermine, in a lugubrious tone, 
“ I think that is it.” 

“ And do you mean to submit to it ? ” 

“ How can I help submitting to it, Alan ? 
You don’t know ” — once more a burning blush 
spread over her face — “ you can’t tell what 
things have been said to me.” 

* Yes, I can ! ” said he, almost fiercely ; 
“ and, by Heaven ! I wish I had the people, 
who said them, here this minute. Ermine ! ” — 
his voice changed and softened so suddenly 
that she fairly started — “ will you go and play 
some for me ? I must think a minute, and your 
music may help me to a decision.” 

“ What do you want to think about ? ” 
asked she, in surprise. 

“ I want to think how I can best defeat 
the kind intentions of these dear friends of 
yours,” answered he, bitterly. “ I am not likely 
to sit down quietly and let them have their 
way. If I had to walk over a dozen moth- 
ers, I would do it without a thought, so I won 
my way to you.” 

“ It is hard,” said Ermine, while her sensi- 
tive lip quivered slightly. “ You have been 
away so long ; and now that you are at 
home — ” 

“ Now that I am at home. I’ll have what I 
want — that is, your society — if I have to fight 
for it ! ” 

“ I’m not worth fighting for, Alan.” 

“ Let me be judge of that, an’t please you ! 
Now go and play for me,” 

“ What shall I play ? ” asked the obedient 
slave of this marine Selim Pacha. 

“ Any thing you please. Didn’t I hear the 
‘ Moonlight Sonata ’ as I came in ? Play that.” 

She went to the piano, and, sitting down, 
began the beautiful strains for the fourth time. 
If any one had chanced to glance in just then, 
the dusk room with the twilight gathering in 
its deeper corners, and the dying Southern 
day outside, would have made a picture worth 
remembering. Through the soft gloaming the 
white statues — pedestal-throned — looked al- 
most eerie in their cold, motionless grace ; one 
large, gleaming mirror caught the orange sun- 
set, and held it, as it were, imprisoned in its 
depths ; through the vine-draped western win- 
dow a flush of rosy light fell over Nix, as he 
lay in leonine grandeur on the velvet carpet, 
prone at his master’s feet, while of this master 
himself, the light only caught the white polish 
of his brow, and the hand that still stroked 
absently the long, silken mustache. The 


piano was entirely in shade, but its tones — 
now deep and rich as an organ, now clear as a 
silver bell — swelled out softly on the flower- 
scented air, the subtile harmonies melting 
into that composition which had for its in- 
spiration the sole attachment of the great 
master’s life, and through which there seems 
quivering, like moonlight on a mountain lake, all 
that is most exquisite, most tender in passion, 
all that is most apart from and above the love 
of the senses. 

“ Whom God loveth not, they love not 
music ! ” Oh, poor, darkened minds ! — poor, 
dust-steeped souls ! — poor, earth bound spirits ! 
Do they never feel that there are heights — 
even on earth — forever beyond them ? Do 
they never yearn to soar aloft — were it only 
for once — into the realm of light and life which 
music alone can lend to the spirit still bound 
within its prison-house of clay ? “ Having 

ears,” do they always “ hear not ” the echo of 
those marvellous strains which speak to the 
soul of man as no .other mortal power has ever 
done, can ever do ? Do they never long for 
one moment in the enchanted palace of har- 
mony and tone, the glowing world of feeling 
and sensation, shut from their obtuse faculties 
forever ? Do they never lift their heavy eyes 
toward the golden cloud-heights far beyond 
them, and wistfully sigh for one faint glimmer 
of the influence which eludes all echo in the 
language of earth, because in it is more of 
heaven than in any other memorial left us of 
the time when angels walked with the first man, 
and when the two in paradise may have 
hearkened in the purple dawn and rosy twi- 
light to the silver harmonies of the choira of 
heaven ? ” 

When the last echoes of the sonata died 
away, the twilight had deepened like a trans- 
parent veil through which there still lingered 
the last kiss that the sun had left to sweeten 
his brief parting from the fair, entrancing 
earth. A soft, wistful sigh came to Ermine's 
ear, as the last chord sounded under her lin- 
gering touch. Then there was silence. 

“Alan,” she said after a while, gently, 
“ Alan — has the music put you to sleep ? ” 

For answer Alan rose and crossed the room 
to her side. That electric current of sympathy 
which is one of the strangest things about our 
strange organism — whether physical or mental, 
who can say? — made her conscious of some 
mood on which her question had jarred, and 
kept her from saying any thing more, even 


52 


EBB-TIDE. 


when the tall figure came and stood over her, 
leaning slightly against the carved instrument. 

Nix raised his great head lazily, and looked 
alter his master ; but he did not feel inclined 
to move, and the twilight baffled even his keen 
eyes. He could see nothing more than two 
shadowy forms — two suggestive outlines of 
manhood and womanhood — at the piano, 
though his quick ear caught the murmur of a 
low, well-known voice. He listened for a mo- 
ment, but the subject under discussion did not 
interest him. He yawned, dropped his mas- 
sive head again, and dreamed probably of the 
last bone he had buried, while Captain Erie 
was saying : 

“ To sleep, indeed ! Could such music put 
anybody but Nix to sleep ? You never played 
better in your life. I wonder what magic en- 
tered into your fingers, you little white witch ! 
I thought of the ‘ Lorely,’ and all the songs of 
the sirens. If I did not go to sleep, I dreamed 
a dream better than Tennyson’s ‘ Dream of 
Fair Women’ — for mine was only of one fair 
woman. Shall I tell it to you ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered the low voice, like music 
out of the fragrant dusk. “ Only I warn you that 
I shall expect something very exquisite, since 
it was inspired by the ‘ Moonlight Sonata.’ ” 

“ I think it was very exquisite — at least it 
seemed so to me. On second thoughts, how- 
ever, I won’t tell it to you — that is, not just 
yet. We have business to settle first, you 
know. I was to find a way out of our dilem- 
ma, was I not ? ” 

“ Of course you were. Didn’t you send 
me to the piano as an excuse to think ? And 
then you tell me that you only dreamed.” 

“ Sometimes our best thoughts come from 
dreams, mignonne. God only knows where 
mine has come from; but I have it, and I 
mean to hold it fast. Little one, look at me ! ” 

“ How can I look at you, Alan, when it is 
so dark ? ” 

“ Why, I see you perfectly — or is it be- 
cause I see you always — absent as well as 
near ? I am inclined to think that your best 
portrait will be found on my heart, after I am 
dead. Ermine.” 

“ Like ‘ Calais ’ on that of your Queen 
Mary ? What a fanciful idea, Alan ! ” 

“Love teaches us fanciful ideas. Who 
was it said that once in his life every man is a 
poet ? There is more truth in that than the 
world wots.’ Little one, gentle one, sweetest 
one of all the earth, suppose I tell you that 


there is but one way out of the difficulties 
which have been placed around us ? — suppose 
I ask you if you love me well enough to place 
your hand in mine and let me claim you as my 
own before all the world ? ” 

“ Alan ! ” 

What a sudden, low cry it was — smiting 
almost painfully on the yielding air, and mak- 
ing Nix raise his head with a deep, bass growl ! 
It reminded Alan of the cry -which she had 
given when he bade her good-by to go upon 
his first long voyage. Then he had taken her 
in his arms and comforted her with softest 
kisses. Now he only knelt (not as a suppliant, 
but simply to place himself on a level with her), 
and, bending his head, laid his lips on the two 
little hands that lay like fragments of rare 
statuary in her lap. 

“Ermine,” he said — and the sweet syllables 
of her name had never sounded so sweet be- 
fore — “ have I startled you ? Child, don’t you 
see how it has been ? I did not mean to ask 
you to marry me, because I had no mind to be 
branded as a fortune-hunter, and I thought you 
would in time love some man who might be 
able to match you in worldly advantages. But 
after all, this is cowardice. Shall I make no 
effort to win the prize and pearl of my life, be- 
cause people for whom I care nothing may 
call me mercenary ? If I had feared that you 
might think so, I should have been silent for- 
ever. But I know better than that. Even if 
you cannot give yourself to me so that no 
human power can ever come between us again, 
I know you will do me the justice to believe 
that I love you so well, so dearly, that every 
other gift of earth seems worse than useless 
without you ! ” 

“ 0 Alan — Alan ! ” 

A different cry, this time — a soft, glad utter- 
ance of happiness, so pure, so tender, that the 
angels of God might have looked on and blessed 
it with a smile ! 

“ Will you come to me, my Ermine, my 
heart’s darling ? ” asked the low voice, infi- 
nitely gentle in its cadence. “ If you say ‘ Yes,’ 
nobody in the world shall evei* harm or trouble 
my spotless lily again ! ” 

She looked up at him with something al- 
most infantine in the sweet, pathetic eyes 
shining out of her white faee in the soft gloom. 

“ Do you really want me, Alan ? ” 

“ Has there ever been a day or an hour 
when I did not want you, my darling, my be- 
loved ? 


FLOOD-TIDE. 


53 


“ You are sure that it is not only because 
you are sorry for me, as you were sorry once 
long ago ? ” 

“ I am very, very sure, my pet. Ah. Er- 
mine ” (with a thrill of passion), “ don’t hold 
back like a pale shadow, and tempt me to take 
you whether you will or no ! Come to me ! — 
say that you are mine ! ” 

Then the hands which he had kissed, but, 
like a chivalric gentleman, left otherwise un- 
touched, came to him with a quaint min- 
gling of child-like simplicity and womanly dig- 
nity. 

“ Here I am, Alan,” said the tender, loyal 
voice. “ Take me if you choose : I am yours.” 

Then he took her — safe into his arms, close 
to his faithful heart. In the fragrant May 
gloaming, they forgot the past or the future, 
and, living only in the magic present, passed, 
like happy children, through the gates of Fancy 
into that fair, enchanted land where Love 
dwells forever as an immortal. 

So they stood, and so they spoke not, for 
many minutes. Then Ermine lifted her face — 
her soft tones breaking on the air with a ca- 
dence like that passionate thrill which we 
catch in the words of the sweet Italian maiden 
who had “ no cunning to be strange.” 

“ Alan dear, was this your dream? ” 

The last, faint flush of sunset — how loath 
the day is to give place to night, in the sweet 
May-time — fell over the shadowy picture which 
they made, standing together — the delicate, 
white-robed woman clasped close in the em- 
brace of her stately lover, her head thrown 
back a little, and her face upturned to catch 
the light in his eyes as she asked her ques- 
tion. 

“You want to know about my dream?” 
he asked, smiling. “ Ah, best-beloved, there is 
now, as ever, but one fair woman for me.” 

“ And she ? ” 

He bent and kissed the eager lips passion- 
ately, before he answered — 

“ She is here.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

FLOOD-TIDE. 

What a good thing it is to be happy ! 
Of course it is a pleasant thing — everybody 
knows that — but I contend that it is also a 
good thing ; that it warms our hearts, expands 


our minds, makes us more gentle, more tender, 
more full of charity to men, more full of love 
to God ! In short, it is to human nature what 
the blessed sunshine is to the plants of the 
earth — warming, fructifying, bringing forth 
fair flowers and sweet fruits even from barren 
ground, until we are almost tempted to ask 
why it is that so little of such an influence 
should be found in the world — 

“ Which God created very good, 

And very mournful we I ” 

Only in this, as in many things else, it is 
easier to ask than to answer. In this, as in 
many things else, faith speaks to us of the 
gracious intentions of a kind Father, and sight 
shows us the perverse rebellion of disobedient 
children. We were meant to be happy — 
every thing goes to prove that — and we have 
to thank each other chiefly and primarily for 
the pangs and tears and bitter sufferings 
which frustrate that intention. 

Sometimes, however, we are happy — su- 
premely and wholly happy — in spite of all 
that can be done by friends or enemies to re- 
duce us to our normal warfare with Fate. 
Sometimes the sunshine comes upon us with 
a rush, and oh, how we bask in it, how we 
drink deeply of its tropical warmth; and, 
even when the clouds gather again, how we 
feel that what we have enjoyed once is ours 
forever ! So it was with Ermine now. Born 
of the South, and in the South, she was 
Southern in every fibre of her being, and 
every tissue of her organization. To say this, 
is to say that she lived a whole life of sensa- 
tion where one of colder temperament would 
have felt scarcely a throb stirring the even 
current of existence. It was enough to look 
at her slight, nervous physiqae, her pale, in- 
tense face, her dark, unconsciously passionate 
eyes, to understand that, for once, Disraeli 
was right when he wrote — “all is race: there 
is no other truth,” and that the wonderful 
Dr. Sarona was equally right when he added — 
“all is temperament: without understanding 
it, there is no arriving at truth.” 

Race and temperament had both conspired 
to make the faithful, tender, passionate creat- 
ure, at whose feet the flood-tide of perfect 
happiness flowed now. This story — being 
simply the story of her life — has little to do 
with others, save in their effect upon this life ; 
therefore it will not pause to tell how the 
storm of family indignation burst on the heads 
of the lovers, who had dared to bring their 


54 


EBB-TIDE. 


iendrme to an open engagement. If either 
of them had regarded this tempest, it might 
prove worth while to devote a little space to 
what was said, by whom, and how, and when, 
and where. But in truth they did not mind it 
in the least. The absorbing preoccupation of 
passion was upon them, and they heeded too 
little, perhaps, the bitter storm around them. 
No one had a right to say them Nay, and for 
simple disapproval they cared nothing. The 
whole course of their love had consisted in 
braving this disapproval, until it had assumed 
the bearing of a settled and unalterable fact — 
somewhat disagreeable, it is true, and, if pos- 
sible, to be ignored. They did ignore it. Oh, 
how easy it is to let any and every untoward 
circumstance pass by like the wind, when one 
is happy ! When one has an inner refuge of 
calm, vexations do not ruffle, and even disap- 
pointments can be borne with sublime philos- 
ophy ! On high moral and social grounds, 
Mrs. Erie took her position, and absolutely 
refused her consent to the engagement; but 
then (as no one knew better than herself) her 
consent was a mere matter of form, her hus- 
band’s will having denied her even the shadow 
of authority over her daughter. She often 
waxed pathetic over this “posthumous in- 
justice and wrong ; ” but the probabilities are 
that the dead St. Amand knew very well 
what he was about, and that Ermine’s life 
would not have been gladdened by even its 
one gleam of sunshine if her mother could 
have prevented it. 

Prevent it, however, she could not — except 
thus far. When Alan came, like the thorough- 
bred gentleman which Nature had made him, 
to ask her consent to her daughter’s engage- 
ment, she coldly reminded him that her con- 
sent was not of any importance, since Ermine’s 
self and Ermine’s fortune were quite indepen- 
dent of her control. Said she, with a keen 
bitterness which he never forgot : 

“ It is to Colonel Vivieux — my daughter’s 
guardian — not to myself, that you should 
apply. I must refer you to him, and I can 
only speak as his representative to a limited 
extent, when I say that, although I cannot for- 
bid, I must decline to sanction the engagement 
into which Mademoiselle St. Amand has seen fit 
to enter. Apart from my personal regard for 
yourself, I consider it a very unadvisable and 
very ill-judged affair. It is my duty, there- 
fore, to beg that no steps may be taken 
toward making the engagement public, until 


Colonel Vivieux’s consent has been formally 
obtained.” 

Answered Captain Erie with unusual but 
(all things considered) scarcely unnatural hau~ 
teur : “You may be sure, madame, that your 
wishes shall be observed — would, indeed, have 
been observed even if you had not expressed 
them. Neither Ermine nor myself is anxious 
to make our engagement public, and I had no 
intention of doing other then applying to her 
guardian for his consent. In coming to ask 
your approval, it seems that I have made a 
mistake — but I cannot regret it. I recog- 
nized — I still recognize — a higher than legal 
right which you possess in your daughter’s 
happiness. Therefore I ventured to ask your 
sanction on the only way in which this happi- 
ness can be secured.” 

“ My daughter knows my wishes with re- 
gard to her,” said Mrs. Erie, icily. “ She does 
not recognize ‘the higher than legal right’ 
of which you are kind enough to speak, and 
therefore I may be pardoned if I waive it.” 

Alan looked steadily into the handsome 
face confronting him, and it seemed to his 
gaze at that moment as if no human counte- 
nance could possibly have been more repulsive 
or more unlovely. 

“ Madame,” he said, “ I do not need for 
you to tell me how unworthy you consider me 
of your daughter — and,” he added, half 
proudly, “ I know as well as you do that I am 
unworthy of her. But, one thing, at least, I 
thank God that I can give her in abundant 
.measure — that is, love.” 

It is likely that Mrs. Erie felt the rebuke 
as keenly as he meant that she should. Yet 
no outward sign betrayed this fact, save only 
the stinging shaft which she sent back in 
return. 

“As I have already remarked. Captain 
Erie, the onerous responsibility of the guar- 
dianship of Ermine does not rest in my hands; 
but I think it right to warn you that Colonel 
Vivieux is an exceedingly practical person, 
and that he may not think the boundless love 
which you are good enough to offer an exact 
equivalent for the ‘ material advantages ’ which 
you would gain by an alliance with his ward.” 

Can anybody offer an insult as neatly and 
effectually as a woman of the world, when she 
chooses to try ? It is really almost edifying to 
mark with what perfect art she knows how, 
and when, and where, to plant a sting which 
cannot be extracted by any degree of mortal 


FLOOD-TIDE. 


55 


skill. In the present instance, Alan had sense 
enough to restrain himself, and not to own, in 
vulgar parlance, that the cap fitted, by putting 
it on. When he could speak — which was not 
by any means immediately — ^he answered 
coldly, but quietly enough : 

“ Allow me to tell you, madame — what I 
shall tell Colonel Vivieux, when I have the 
pleasure of seeing him — that, in asking Ermine 
to marry me, I do not propose that all the 
‘material advantages’ shall be on her side. 
That she is unfortunately rich, I know ; but — 
although I am at present a poor man — I, too, 
have sanguine hopes of wealth. According to 
my present expectations (by detailing which I 
could not hope to interest you), I am sure that 
my next voyage will go far to make me inde- 
pendent of any fortune — be it large or small — 
which Ermine may possess.” 

“In other words, you propose that my 
daughter shall waste the best years of her 
youth in an aimless engagement, while you — 
excuse me if the truth sounds rude ! — are pur- 
suing some visionary scheme of wealth on the 
other side of the globe ? ” 

“ Not visionary, if you will excuse me, in 
turn. I cannot think that details of maritime 
enterprise, could be interesting, or even intelli- 
gible to a lady, or I should endeavor to prove 
to you — as I hope to prove to Colonel Vivieux 
— that my expectations rest on a very sure 
basis. At all events, you may be sure that I 
shall not press the question of marriage on 
Ermine, until I can offer her something besides 
an empty name, and the love which — as you 
are kind enough to remind me — contrasts but 
poorly with the wealth which she will bring to 
her husband.” 

With this assurance — spoken in a tone 
which it was impossible to doubt — Mrs. Erie 
was certainly justified in thinking that she had 
gained an advantage which might prove of 
very solid importance and benefit. After this, 
she felt that it was wisest to succumb a little 
to the inevitable, to conceal a slight acknowl- 
edgment of the engagement, to patch up a 
truce, with a perfect understanding on both 
sides of its hollowness. 

But harder even to bear than the lady’s 
refined sarcasm were the significant comments 
of Mr. Erie and Raymond. A man cannot well 
knock another man down, for smiling in very 
cynical fashion and saying, “ My dear fellow, 
you certainly have wonderful luck — allow me 
to congratulate you ! ” — but he can at least 


feel very much inclined to do so. In truth, 
nothing tried Alan’s patience more sorely than 
the consciousness that his uncle and brother 
measured him by their own standard — a»' 
everybody more or less does in this world — 
and considered simply that he had been more 
lucky or more far-seeing than themselves. 

“ Upon my word, my dear boy,” said hia 
uncle, smiling benignly, “ your quixotism in 
resigning your mother’s fortune is very prettily 
rewarded — quite like a moral story, indeed. 
Having no particular interest in Ermine’s 
heiress-ship, I don’t know the exact figure of 
her fortune ; but I think I am justified in 
assuring you that it will reach a very handsome 
amount — very handsome indeed ! I take it 
for granted that you will retire from the — ah — 
sea immediately.” 

“ On the contrary, sir, I expect to go to 
sea again within a month,” answered Alan, 
quite brusquely. 

He was too proud and too worldly-wise both, 
to attempt any disclaimer of interested mo- 
tives to men like these. There are people in the 
world who are honestly incredulous of any thing 
more than what they find in themselves. These 
people yield you a sort of reluctant admiration 
while they think you a mercenary scoundrel ; 
but, if you disclaim the scoundrelism or the 
mercenary intentions, they change their minds 
only just sufficiently to consider you a hypo- 
crite. All the eloquence of all the angels, 
archangels, thrones, dominations, and powers, 
could not have convinced a single member of 
the Erie family that Alan sought Ermine sim- 
ply for herself and the pure, sweet womanhood 
which God had given her. So, the young sailor 
held his peace, and wasted not even a word 
on them. The misconception hurt him, of 
course — does misconception ever not hurt ? — 
but he was enough of a philosopher to take it 
for what it was worth. Or, no — he was not 
enough a philosopher to do that. He thought 
he did, but he was mistaken. If he had rated 
it at its true value, he would never have let it 
influence him even to the degree of making 
the resolve which he had opposed to Mrs. Erie’s 
barbed arrows. If he had done what was 
wise, he •rould have taken the gift which For- 
tune had bestowed ; he would have regarded 
the tender, loving, human heart more than the 
dross of earth which went with it ; he would 
have sacrificed his own pride to secure the 
happiness of the woman who had trusted all 
to him. But he did not do this. He let his 


66 


EBB-TIDE. 


opportunity pass, and Fate seldom offers twice 
a chance which has been once neglected. 
There are few of us who have not learned from 
bitter experience that — 

“We must take the current when it serves, 

Or lose our ventures.” 

Delay a day, delay even an hour, let the ebb 
once come, and not even Shakespeare ever said 
a truer truth than that the voyage of our lives 
will be for aye 

“ Bound in shallows and in miseries.” 

But the ebb had not come in the lives of 
the two of whom this story speaks. Just 
now that “ tide in the affairs of men, which, 
taken at the flood, leads on to fortune,” rolled 
its bright waves to their feet. If they had 
embarked — Ah, well! let the future tell its 
own story. We deal simply with the present. 

And how bright the present was 1 Not 
even Romeo and Juliet telling over the poetry 
of their immortal love, “in the land where 
love most lovely seems,” were ever more rapt 
in golden enchantment than these two, in the 
spring-tide of that happiness like unto no 
other happiness of earth. Any one who has 
ever known any thing of the sensitive, artistic 
temperament — ^the temperament so closely 
allied to genius that we can scarcely dissociate 
one from the other — may perhaps imagine (for 
words of common prose can never tell) what 
this period of her life was to Ermine. She 
was in a dream somewhat like the trance into 
which she might have fallen over the “ Wal- 
purgis Night,” or the Madonna di San Sisto ; 
only those states of passionate feeling woiild 
have been but types of the great love which 
came to her now, even as this love was again 
but a type of the eternal Love toward which 
our earth-weighed eyes are rarely lifted. 

Madelon regarded her cousin during this 
time with the cool, calm, scientiflc curiosity of 
a person to whom such extravagance was ut- 
terly incomprehensible, and (but for the testi- 
mony of sight) utterly incredible. 

“ I try my best to understand you. Ermine,” 
she said, a little plaintively one day, “ but I 
can’t ! Are you really so happy as you seem ? 
It is the most extraordinary thing to^e that 
you should be ! And, if you are happy, where 
on earth are your rational grounds for it ? ” 

Ermine laughed — a soft, sweet ripple, com- 
mon to her lips of late. 

“ What do you call rational grounds ? ” she 
aeked.j. ‘ 


The other shrugged her shoulders in the 
t significant GaJic fashion which she possessed 
to perfection. 

“ Something more than fine abstractions, 
you may be sure. Excuse me if I speak 
plainly ; but indeed I am so very curious, and 
if you will only tell me what you find in Alan 
Erie to elevate you to the seventh heaven at 
the mere proposal of bestowing all your wealth, 
and beauty, and talents on him, I shall be con- 
tented. I can’t bear to be puzzled, and this 
does puzzle me. He really seems to me one of 
the most commonplace men in existence.” 

“ You know nothing about him, Made- 
Ion.” 

“ I am not in love with him, my dear — 
thank Heaven for it ! — but I fancy I know him 
all the better on that account. He is moder- 
ately good-looking — but so are hundreds of 
other men. He is moderately clever — but so 
are dozens at least of others. He is a good 
sailor, no doubt — but that does not concern 
you. He is sufficiently amiable and kind- 
hearted to let that abominable dog of his break 
other people’s vases — but I really don’t see the 
virtue of l/iaL Now, tell me, if you can, what 
else he is ? ” 

“ Indeed, Madelon, if I talked forever, I 
could not make you understand any better than 
you do now, what he is.” 

“ Why not ? Am I so stupid, or are his 
virtues so exalted ? ” 

“Neither — as you well know. But he is 
simply Alan, and that is the end of the matter. 
His character is written on his face, for all to 
read ; if you have not read it there, you 
would not be likely to read it any better in my 
words.” 

“ But, Ermine — ” 

“ Well, Madelon ? ” 

“ Do try to tell me what you see in him. 
He is not like you in the least — though you 
are both fond of dabbling in paints. What 
is his spell ? — what is his charm ? It can’t be 
only because he was kind to you when you 
were a child ! ” 

“ No,” said Ermine, “ of course it is not 
that. If he had been a different person, grat- 
itude would have stopped short at gratitude, 
and never gone on to love. I can’t tell you why 
it is that every thing he does is pleasant to me, 
every thing he says, music to my ears ; but so 
it is. You are right in saying that we are not 
alike ; but I suppose we differ in order to cor. 
I respond. At least I am sure there is al 


FLOOD-TIDE. 


51 


ways harmony with us — we never differ to 
jar.” 

“ In other words, you love him.” 

“Yes, I love him till I tremble. I am so 
happy that I would not care if the world ended 
to-night ; for I know I can never be more 
happy, and fear I may be less.” 

“ 3fon Dieu ! ” 

Madelon’s astonishment culminated in this 
exclamation. She looked at her cousin several 
minutes without speaking — then shook her 
head with the air of one who says, “ I give 
it up,” 

“For the mere novelty of the thing, I be- 
lieve I will cultivate a grande passion ! ” said 
she, meditatively. “ I wonder if any man in 
the world could ever make a fool of me ! I 
don’t mean that you are a fool. Ermine — I 
don’t pretend to decide that point. I only 
mean that I should be, if I ever fell in love. 
And when, pray, is the contract of marriage 
to be formally made out — Ermine Helene St. 
Amand, of the island of Martinique, and Alan 
Erie, of — what shall I say, the good city of 
Charleston, or the good ship Adventure ? ” 

“ The good ship Adventure always, if you 
have no objection,” said a voice behind the 
two girls — a voice which made Ermine start 
and turn, with light flashing to her eyes, and 
color to her cheeks. 

Alan stood in the outer door — tall, hand- 
some, stately — seeming to bring a breath of 
the fragrant outer world with him, in his 
smile, or in the rose in his button-hole — it was 
hard to say which. He looked much more 
like a cavalier than a sailor, for he wore 
riding-gloves and spurs ; but the limpid eyes 
had a gleam of amusement in their sea-colored 
depths, as he lazily answered Madelon’s glance 
of interrogative surprise. 

“ Are you wondering where I came from. 
Miss Lautrec ? Ask Ermine, and she will tell 
you that I sometimes rise out of the floor, and 
then again, vanish in a cloud of sulphur. No- 
body can talk of me with impunity — I always 
appear on the scene in time to say a good 
word for myself.” 

“ Then,” said Madelon, very dryly, “ I shall 
be careful how I talk of you hereafter. I as- 
sure you it is by no means a common or 
favorite amusement of mine to canvas either 
your character or your local habitation. I 
only spoke of you by chance a minute ago.” 

He raised his eyebrows a little — so much 
malicious meaning quivering around his lips. 


that she knew in a minute that he had either 
overheard or guessed at more than her closing 
remark. 

“ Indeed I’m sorry for that,” said he, com- 
ing forward and sitting down by her. “ I was 
in hopes you had been telling Ermine what a 
nonpareil she had secured. Your good opinion 
would be worth having, because I am inclined 
to think that you don’t give it very often.” 

“ You are perfectly right in that.” 

“ I wonder if I could not secure it par droit 
de conquete? I’ve a mind to try while Ermine 
changes her dress ! ” 

“ Change my dress ! What for, Alan ? ” 

“ For Mignonne, who is at the door. I did 
not send you word that I was coming, because 
I knew from experience how quickly you can 
put on a habit.” 

“I shall not be ten minutes,” said she — 
and was out of the room as lightly and as 
swiftly as a bird. 

In the course of the next half-hour she 
came down — looking two degrees more slender 
than when she had gone up, in consequence 
of being robed in close-fitting black, which 
showed every line of her figure to the best 
advantage. After all, there is no possible cos- 
tume in which a pretty woman looks prettier 
than in the dear, well-known habit, the fashion 
of which varieth not through many genera- 
tions. Barring the detestable high hat (which 
is as ugly as any and every other fashion that 
ever came from England), it is the most grace- 
ful and most universally becoming costume 
that ever was invented. Ermine’s artist eye 
and French taste prevented her disfiguring her 
toilet with this monstrosity of a head-gear. 
On the contrary, she wore a soft, low-crowned 
felt, one side of which was looped with an 
aigrette of cut steel, while an ostrich-plume 
swept entirely around the other. “ You look 
like a pretty little Spanish contrabanda ! ” 
Alan had said, laughing, when she first made 
her appearance in this ; but he confessed that 
a more bewitching chapeau never was invented, 
and Ermine was doubly fond of wearing what 
had met with such unqualified approval from 
him. 

“ Reac^, Alan ? ” she asked, pausing in 
the hall to draw on her gauntlets, and glance 
into the sitting-room where Alan and Madelon 
were still iete-d-tete. 

“ Ready ? certainly,” answered Alan, rising, 
and coming forward. Then, after making his 
adieux to Madelon, they went out together 


68 


EBB-TIDE. 


Before the door, a groom was standing with 
two animals — a graceful, thorough-bred bay 
mare, and a well-built horse of the color 
known as chestnut-sorrel — while Nix lay on 
guard beside them, not having been allowed 
to cross the threshold, because his ever-waving 
tail had, a few days before, swept a rare 
marble vase from its pedestal. 

What a comfort it is when a man knows 
how to put a woman on horseback ! Alan 
knew perfectly. He held out his hand. Ermine 
placed one daintily-booted foot in it, gave one 
elastic spring, and was in the saddle as se- 
curely as Di Vernon; the modus operandi on 
the gentleman’s part reminding one somewhat 
of “ Young Lochinvar,” who, according to the 
ballad, must have been an accomplished pro- 
ficient in this rare art : 

“ One touch to her hand, and one word to her ear, 

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger 
stood near ; 

So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, 

So light to the saddle before her he sprung. 

‘She is won I We are gone o’er bush, bank, and 
scaur — 

They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young 
Lochinvar.” 

It would not have required very fleet steeds, 
however, to follow this pair as they rode down 
the street, escorted by Nix, and followed by 
the admiring gaze of the groom, and one small 
boy who paused and looked, and looked and 
paused again, while he balanced a tray on his 
head. Madelon, too, looked over the blind, 
with a cynical smile curling her scarlet lip. 

“ As happy as a couple of children or a 
couple of fools ! ” said she to herself. “ Grace 
d Dim! what incomprehensible absurdity — 
on Ermine’s side at least ! Of course, he is 
doing amazingly well for himself ; and, no 
doubt, he finds it pleasant enough to make a 
fool of her. W ould I — could I — shall I — ever 
fall into a like plight ? Bah ! not I — Nature 
left the troublesome organ called a heart out of 
my composition, and hearty thanks I owe her 
for it. How many men would have liked to 
amuse themselves with me if I had only been 
of the proper impressionable material ! As it 
was, I think I may flatter myself with having 
turned the tables on most of them ! After all, 
if I were rich like Ermine — pshaw ! if I were, I 
should find a better mate than the captain of a 
trading-vessel, let him be ever so agreeable, 
ever so handsome, and I must confess that he 
is both. How well he rides, for a sailor! 
There — they are gone. Well” (yawning). 


“where on earth is my novel? That tro’ibl^ 
some man had it, and of course ” (suddenly 
spying it out and taking it up) “ it smells of 
horses and cigars! What horrid creatures 
men are ! — and yet they certainly give a spice 
to life ! Even when one don’t care for them, 
one can’t well do without them — at least, as 
material for amusement.” 


CHAPTER X. 

“love hath set our days in music to the 

SELF-SAME AIR.” 

Meanwhile, Ermine and Alan, having left 
the city behind, were riding farther and farther 
into the lovely, flower-scented country, with 
the dying glory of the June day all around 
them. They were so happy — and every thing 
seemed to conspire to give this happiness such 
a fair and gracious framework ! Somebody 
says that Nature apparently takes pleasure in 
surrounding young lovers with brightness ; and 
that Fate, otherwise a stern task-mistress, 
finds delight in casting their lines in pleasant 
places. Certainly it was the case, for a time 
at least, with these. The sweet idyl of their 
love flowed all the more brightly in that it was 
reflected from every bright scene around them ; 
and the dumb face of Earth seemed in this 
happy summer-time, this glorious June, to be 
wreathed with gladness in their honor. As 
they rode they talked, and talking smiled — 
not so much because their words were other 
than commonplace, as because they had what 
George Eliot calls “the ineffable sense of 
youth in common.” 

“ What were you saying to Madelon ? ” 
asked Ermine, after a while. “ She is so pretty, 
and can be so charming when she likes, that 
I felt half inclined to be jealous when I came 
down-stairs and saw your confidential-looking 
tete-d-tetey 

“ She is pretty,” said Alan, coolly, “ and I 
suppose she can be charming when she likes 
— a woman with that kind of eyes usually can 
— but she does not often like, so far as I am 
concerned. If she were a princess, she could 
not hold herself more haughtily aloof,” he went 
on, with a slight laugh. “ I suppose it is on 
account of the marine taint upon me. Ermine, 
my darling, you are a brave woman to make 
up your mind to marry a sea-captain ! ” 

“ I did not need to make up my mind,” 


“LOVE HATH SET OUR DAYS IN MUSIC TO THE SELF-SAME AIR.” 


59 


said Ermine, candidly. “ I was very glad to 
take you, sea-captain or no sea-captain. In- 
deed,” she added, with a little sigh of compunc- 
tion, “ I am afraid I should take you all the 
same, if you were a pirate, or any thing else 
disreputable.” 

“ I am sure I should find more favor in the 
eyes of your cousin in that case,” said he. 
“We became rather confidential during your 
absence, and she was good enough to tell me 
that the chief reason why she had never liked 
me was that my moral sense was too strong. 

‘ I like a man who would walk to his end over 
any thing^ she said ; and by Jove ! she looked 
amazingly as if she would not much mind do- 
ing it herself ! ” 

“ You must not judge Madelon by her 
words,” said Ermine. “ I never knew any one 
who talked more recklessly ; but I am sure she 
does not mean a tenth part of what she 
says.” 

“ I am not by any means so sure,” said 
Alan, skeptically. “ Where there is so much 
smoke, thei’e must be some fire, even if it only 
smoulders ; and I am inclined to think that a 
smouldering fire is sometimes worse than a 
blaze. I have always told you that there is 
dangerous material in that girl, and I never 
felt more sure of it than to-day.” 

“ What did you say when she accused 
you of having too strong a moral sense ? ” 

“ What could I say but that if I had been 
aware of the reward in view, I should cer- 
tainly early in life have turned highwayman or 
forger ? ” 

“ And then ? ” 

“ She shrugged her shoulders and said that 
she had no fancy for vulgar villany. ‘ Crime 
for the mere sake of crime is not at all attrac- 
tive to me,’ she explained ; ‘ but when a man 
commits a great crime to secure some great 
end — ’ ‘ You are kind enough to approve of it,’ 
I suggested as she paused. ‘ I cannot help ad- 
miring it, at least,’ she said, ‘ provided always 
that he is subtile, and daring, and ready, if 
the worst comes to the worst, to face the con- 
sequences of his act.’ ” 

“ Nice moral sentiments for a young lady,” 
said Ermine, more amused than shocked, for 
she knew Madelon too well. “ Poor girl ! her 
head has been turned with Eugene Sue and 
George Sand. Don’t let such nonsense preju- 
dice you against her, Alan. She really has a 
very kind heart.” 

“ I suppose she has,” said Alan. “ At 


least, if I had not thought so, I should not have 
asked her something that I did ask her this 
afternoon.” 

Ermine looked up at him a little curiously. 
“ Something that you asked Madelon, Alan ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered, smiling. “ Could you 
possibly guess what it was? No! I am sure 
you could not, so I must tell you. I asked 
her to be a friend to you while I am gone.” 

Ermine’s lips sprang apart in her surprise ; 
her eyes opened on him, large and startled. 

“ Alan ! what do you mean ? ” 

“ Nothing to look so scared about, my pet,” 
answered Alan, half laughing. “ You know, as 
well as I do, that every member of the family 
is opposed, either directly or indirectly, to our 
engagement, with the single exception of Mad- 
elon. She has no interest to serve in the 
matter, one way or another ; so I begged her 
to stand by you when I shall be far away.” 

Ermine choked back a rush of salt tears, 
and pulled Mignonne’s rein nervously, as she 
managed to say : 

“ That was quite unnecessary, Alan. Mad- 
elon has always been a good friend to me. 
But she is selfish. Almost everybody is, I be- 
gin to think,” she added, mournfully. 

“ Of course she is selfish,” said Alan, quietly. 
“ As you remark, almost everybody is ; but 
her selfishness can’t possibly clash with her 
love for you. I considered that point. Do you 
suppose I should have asked her to stand by 
you if it had been her interest to stand against 
you ? ” 

“ 0 Alan ! ” 

“ What is the matter ? Do you think I 
have taken a leaf out of Balzac and Sue ? Stop 
a moment and ask yourself, would you trust 
Madelon’s friendship, if Madelon’s interest were 
opposed to yours ? ” 

Ermine was about to say, ‘Of course I 
would,’ when a sudden remembrance of Made- 
lon’s own words came to check her. She rec- 
ollected how her cousin had bade her take 
warning that, if ever their interests clashed, she 
(Madelon) would not be the one to give way ; 
so, after a moment, she replied : 

“ Perhaps not, Alan — I can’t tell. But one 
thing is certain: Madelon’s interest is not 
likely to clash with mine, since you are not 
likely to fall in love with her, and ” (half-laugh- 
ing) “lam sure she would i ot marry you if you 
did.” 

“ She is not likely to have the chance,” 
said Alan, philosophically. “ But all the same, 


60 


EBB-TIDE. 


she promised me to stand by you. ‘ Through 
thick and thin ? ’ I asked. ‘ Yes,’ she an- 
swered, ‘ through thick and thin.’ Then she 
g.ive me her hand on it ; and by Jove ! Ermine, 
it is a wonderfully pretty one ! ” 

“ Of course it is a pretty one,” said Ermine, 
smiling, yet pondering a little in her own mind 
on the difference between men and women. 
Could she, by any possibility speak in that 
tone of the hand, or foot, or mustache, or any 
thing else whatever, belonging to any other 
man ? Her masculine world was as narrow as 
Eve’s. This Adam was all she saw or knew ; 
all other men were to her as if they had not 
been. But Alan had not the least objection to 
clasping Madelon’s white hand, and gazing 
into Madelon’s dark eyes, appreciating both 
the one and the other as much as if there had 
been no Ermine in the world. Did this curious 
fact come of “ man’s love ” being of man’s 
life a thing apart, she wondered ; and, so 
wondering, was silent for so long that Alan 
spoke. 

“What are you thinking of, little one? 
Your face might serve as a cast of II Pen- 
seroso, as you ride along there. Do you im- 
agine that there is any prospect of your need- 
ing Madelon’s championship while I am 
gone ? ” 

“ Scarcely,” answered she. “ They ” (by 
this ambiguous phrase she meant the Erie 
family) “ know that I am independent of them, 
and they will not trouble me, I am sure. Then 
there is my guardian. He is a tower of 
strength.” 

“ But an uncomfortably distant tower of 
strength. 0 Ermine, Ermine — ” 

“Well, Alan, what?” 

“ I was only going to curse the poverty 
which necessitates my leaving you. But that is 
cowardly and ungrateful. Suppose I had never 
won you — suppose I had come home and found 
you married to Raymond ? ” 

“ Suppose something possible while you are 
about it, Alan.” 

“ You are sure it is impossible. Ermine ? ” 
“ Sure, Alan ! ” (indignantly). “ What do 
you mean? At this absurdly late day, are 
you going to pretend to be jealous? — and of 
Raymond, of all people ! ” 

“Jealous! Well, no. Only distrustful of 
my own great good luck. What on earth you 
see in me. Ermine, I am sure I can’t tell.” 

“ And what on earth you see in me, Alan, I 
am sure I can’t tell I ” 


They look at each other and laugh — happj 
as the children to whom Madelon had contempt- 
uously likened them. 

“ Well, well,” said Captain Erie, with a short 
sigh, “ we shall have to learn the worst of each 
other hereafter, for we certainly know only the 
best now. I wonder if you have any worst, 
Ermine ? ” 

“ Have you, Alan ? ” 

“ I ! Good Heavens, yes ! My dear child, 
whatever you do, don’t go to work and make 
a paladin of me. I am only a commonplace 
man, with the devil’s own temper, sometimes.” 

Ermine shook her head with a laugh. 

“I don’t believe one word of it ! You 
need not abuse yourself to get into my good 
graces. I am not Madelon.” 

“ Thanks to a merciful Providence, you are 
not indeed ! ” 

“Alan!” (with a ridiculous attempt at a 
frown), “ don’t be irreverent.” 

“ Is it irreverent to thank God that you 
are what you are, sweetheart ? I’ll not be- 
lieve that. But, as for my temper — let any- 
body molest you while I am gone, and I can 
promise them a taste of it when I come back ! ” 

Ermine glanced at him from under the 
rolling rim of her hat, and was a little sur- 
prised and a good deal edified to observe that 
a considerable gleam of the temper of which 
he spoke had flashed into his usually genial 
face and sunny eyes. She liked him all the 
better for it, since it is an astonishing but 
most undoubted fact that women — especially 
when they are very young and consequently 
very foolish — do like this thing which of all 
others most surely promises a plentiful harvest 
of future wretchedness and tears. There is a 
certain popular proverb, which is not in the 
least complimentary to the weaker sex — about 
a woman, a spaniel, and a walnut-tree — but, 
taking it in a moral sense, we are sometimes 
compelled to acknowledge that it is in a meas- 
ure true. Most men certainly like to domi- 
neer, and most women (until the delightful 
pastime has lost its novelty) like to be domi- 
neered over — which is a convenient arrange- 
ment of Nature, to say the least. Let it not 
be supposed, however, that Alan was at all 
inclined to Caesarism, or that Ermine would 
have been at all partial to being browbeaten. 
Only the instinct of the woman was gratified 
by that gleam of menacing light which was 
called forth at the mere thought of harm or 
wrong to her. 


“ LOVE HATH SET OUR DAYS IN MUSIC TO THE SELF-SAME AIR.” 


61 


“Alan dear,” she said, after a moment, 
“ since you think it right to go, I have not, as 
you know, even a desire to keep you ; only — 
only — ” here the rebellious tears rose up — “I 
have felt an instinct from the first that if you 
do go something will happen ; and that, after 
this dream is broken, we can never, never be 
BO happy again.” 

“ But, my darling, that is nonsense*! ” 

“ I know it, and I have tried — oh, so hard I 
—to put it from me. But I cannot. I am 
sure all this is too bright to last — it is too 
good to be true. Earth is not heaven — nor 
meant to be. Now, it would be heaven to 
me if I spent life with you, as I have spent 
these last few weeks. So I know it will not 
be permitted — something will come between 
us.” 

“ But,” said Alan, with hard, logical com- 
mon-sense, “ what can possibly come between 
us, save your own will ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said she. “ But ” — and 
riding along in the warm June air, he saw her 
shiver — “ I am sure that, if we ever meet again, 
it will not be as we meet now. You need not 
reason with me, Alan, for I have reasoned with 
myself. You need not even laugh at me, for 
I have laughed at myself. Nothing shakes 
the deep, settled impression. Echoing through 
my mind all the time are two verses which I 
saw not long ago : 

‘ Some there be that shadows kiss, 

Some have but a shadow’s bliss.’ 

Will it be so with us ? Shall we only kiss this 
shadow of love which seems so bright and 
sweet ? ” 

“You must choose your metaphors bet- 
ter,” said he, trying to smile away the sudden 
cloud of pathetic sadness which had fallen 
over her face. “ Our love is not a shadow — it 
is a reality. Ermine, if I know that you are 
making yourself miserable with such thoughts 
as these, how can I be other than miserable in 
leaving you ? ” 

“Forgive me,” said Ermine, penitently. 
“ I did not — indeed, I did not — mean to speak 
of it. I am sure I don’t know why I did. 
Only, Alan — ” 

“ Well, my love ? ” 

“ Musi you go ? ” 

Oh, world of entreaty in three small words ! 
Transcribed, they look like the most ordinary 
question ; but, with the heart-eloquence that 
stirred them, and the dark eyes that seconded 


them, Alan Erie had a hard tug with himself 
before he could answer : 

“ My darling, don’t you know that I must ? ” 
“ How can I know it ? ” she asked. Then 
as a sudden rush of tears came, “0 Alan, 
Alan, if you were only going to take me with 
you, I should be content 1 ” 

“But, Ermine — ” 

“ Yes,” said she, hastily, “ I know you 
can’t, and I know, also, that it is not at all 
‘ proper ’ for me to say such a thing. I love 
you too well, Alan ” (smiling at him through 
her tears), “ I am sure I shall spoil you. They 
say — experienced women say — that it is al- 
ways bad policy to show one’s affection to the 
man for whom one cares.” 

“ Confound such hypocrites ! ” said he, un- 
gallantly. “ Let them practise their own pre- 
cepts if they choose, but, for God’s sake, don’t 
you take a leaf from them I I would not have 
you altered by one jot or tittle, for all the ex- 
perienced women in the world. I wish to 
Heaven I could take you with me ! But, since 
that is impossible, I will do this — I will leave 
it for you to decide whether or not I shall go.” 

“ No, no, Alan ” (shrinking), “ I cannot 
accept such a responsibility.” 

“ I confess it would be a little sacrifice to 
me,” said he, looking away from her. “ You 
see. Ermine, your wealth stands like a wall 
between us. I cannot forget it — nor will 
other people forget it either. The devil him- 
self seems to inspire most of the congratula- 
tions that I have received 1 ” he went on, sav- 
agely. “ The significant words and looks and 
tones — nobody in the world will ever know, 
half the people in the world would never be- 
lieve, how they have cut me to the quick ! ” 

“ I know, Alan ” — and a tiny, gauntleted 
hand went involuntarily out toward him. “ It 
is because I know so well, that I have not said 
one word before — that I am sorry for having 
said one word now. Go, dear, if you must go. 
I can wait — as I have waited before.” 

The pathetifc eyes looked at him as she 
uttered the last words — steadfast and brave, 
though the lips quivered piteously. Alan had 
ridden close beside her, and was holding the 
hand which she extended clasped close against 
his breast, as he gazed into the pure, dark 
depths, trying perhaps to read the riddle of 
his fate there. The horses, feeling the reins 
slack and more slack upon their necks, had 
come down to a snail’s pace, and were indul- 
ging the vagaries of their own sweet wills, in 


62 


EBB-TIDE. 


the way of sociably rubbing their noses to- 
gether, while Nix stood on the side of the 
road, and, no doubt, wondered in his own mind 
what on earth his master was about. 

“ Ermine,” said Alan, passionately, “ my 
faith in you is like the rock of Gibraltar — it is 
too great to be placed in a mere fallible creat- 
ure. Child, for God’s sake, take heed what 
you do ! If you should ever fail me — how 
could I forgive myself for having gone ? ” 

“ I cannot say that nothing will befall me, 
Alan,” said the sweet, loyal voice, “ for life 
and all the circumstances of life are in God’s 
hand ; but I can say that I will never fail you. 
Nothing but death shall ever take me from 
you.” 

“ I ought to be sure of that,” he said. “ I 
have known you as child and woman, and 
never yet found a flaw in you. They did well 
to name you Ermine,” he went on, tenderly ; 
“ the ermine is the purest and whitest of all 
God’s creatures, and dies if so much as the 
least spot soils its snowy purity. I ought to 
trust you — I do trust you, perfectly — and yet, 
I think your fears have infected me. Some- 
how I feel — What the deuce are you after, sir ! 
Hold up your head, can’t you ? ” 

This unromantic conclusion was addressed 
to the horse, whose head had gone lower and 
lower between his legs, as if he meant to in- 
dulge in a mouthful of nice white sand. One 
' sharp jerk of the bit brought it up again in 
short order, however, and then Captain Erie 
concluded his speech : 

“ Somehow I feel more unwilling to go to 
sea than I ever did in my life. It is natural, 
though, since I leave you behind — my hostage 
in the hands of Fortune. Ermine ” (fiercely), 
“if God does not deal well with you, I shall 
not believe that there is a God ! ” 

“ 0 Alan, hush ! ” cried she, shrinking as 
she might have shrunk from a blow, for she 
was of a nature wholly and unatfectedly de- 
vout. “ Don’t talk in that way, it sounds like 
a defiance — which is so awful ! Don’t you re- 
member what somebody says, not very rever- 
ently, perhaps, but still very sensibly — ‘ It is 
never wise to try conclusions with the Al- 
mighty.’ Who am I, that I should be exempt 
from the suffering of earth ? ” 

“ You shall be exempt from it when once 
you are mine, to have and to hold — safe from 
all others,” said he, boldly and not over-rever- 
ently. “ Ermine, Ermine, stop — think— must 
I, shall I go ? ” 


She stopped and thought — long and deeply 
What a struggle it was with her to decide as 
she did decide, no one, save God, could tell. 
She fought the fight deep in her own breast, 
and it was only the calm result of victory 
which he saw at last. 

“ Alan, dear,” she said, in a voice as soft 
and low as the “ wind of the western sea,” “ I 
know that you want to go — that is, I know 
that you will not be content unless you do go 
— so I will not say one word to keep you. Af- 
ter all, what are these fancies, but fancies ? 
Nothing can harm me while you are gone ; all 
the powers of earth cannot make me unfaith- 
ful to you ; and I shall remember that our own 
dear Lord watches over the sea as over the 
land, and will hear my prayers for you let you 
be where you will. The days will be weary 
and long while you are away ; but I can think 
of you, and look for your letters, and remem- 
ber that every hour takes me nearer the 
blessed hour of your return.” 

“ And so you say — ‘ Go ? ’ ” 

“No, I cannot say that — but I will not 
say, ‘ Stay.’ ” 

“ Then you mean, ‘ go ’ — and you are 
right. A man in the full prime of all his 
powers would be a contemptible fellow in- 
deed who threw up all his hopes of fortune 
or advancement in the world, and sat down 
to be happy — on his wife’s wealth. Perhaps 
some men might stand it and not lose all 
self-respect ; but it would crush all the man- 
hood out of me ! Nobody could despise more 
than I should despise myself — and you would 
despise me too. Ermine.” 

“ Should I, Alan ? ” 

“Yes, my pet — my pretty, soft-eyed dar- 
ling — I think you would, after a time. Even 
Nix would turn the cold shoulder on me. So 
it is better as it is. I have lingered in this 
paradise of roses a little too long already, 
or I shouldn’t have hesitated over such a 
plain duty. The sea is what I need — the 
sea will soon take all the ncnsense out of 
me ! ” 

“ Well,” said Ermine, with a sigh, “ if it is 
settled, it is settled. We will make it a ta- 
booed subject, Alan. I don’t 'mean to think 
of it any more until it is time to say good-by. 
Now, let us take a canter.” 

“ With all my heart,” said Alan ; and, 
touching their horses, away they went, canter- 
ing lightly down the level stretch of shining 
road, with the last rays of the sun streaming 


“ LOVE HATH SET OUR DAYS IN MUSIC TO THE SELF-SAME AIR.” 


63 


over them and seeming to surround them with 
a halo of brightness. 

So, they pass from sight — loving and be- 
loved, crowned, as it were, with every gift of 
life, and worthy, one would think, of envy, 
only that one catches the low, soft murmur of 
that receding tide which, having flowed once 


to their feet, will flow not ever again through 
all the years of life. 

“ Ah, never more, 

Ah never, shall the bitter with the sweet , 

Be mingled so, in the pale after-years I 
One hour of life immortal spirits possess. 

This drains the world, and leaves but weariness, 
And parching passion, and perplexing tears.” 


PAET 11. 


T E: E TIDE EBBS. 


“All’s over, then. Does truth sound bitter, 
As one at first believes ? ” 


I. —From a Charleston paper, date June 18, 186-. 

“Died, at Fort de France, in the island of Marti- 
nique, on the 29th of May, Henri Charles Vivieux, a na- 
tive of Bordeaux, France, and former colonel of Volti- 
geurs in the French service, aged seventy-four years 
and eight months. May he rest in peace I ” 

II. — From the same paper, date October 12, 185-. 

“We regret to learn that the brig Adventure, Cap- 
tain Erie, homeward bound for the port of Charleston 
fi-om Buenos Ayres, was caught in the terrific storm 
which visited the whole Atlantic coast on the 20th of 
September, and wrecked off the coast of French Gui- 
ana. A portion of the crew were rescued by a French 
transport out from Cayenne ; but the large majority, it 
is feared, have perished, with the captain and cargo. 
The latter, we learn from Messrs. Miller & Sons, who 
were the principal consignees, is partly covered by in- 
surance. Captain Erie was well known and highly es- 
teemed in our community, and we tender our condo- 
lences to his relatives and finends.” 

III . — From the same, of a week later. 

“We learn, from a New York paper, that the sur- 
vivors of the shipwrecked crew of the brig Adventure 
reached that port a day or two ago in the packet Elvira, 
out from Havre fourteen days. Meeting the latter, they 
were transferred from the French transport L’Hiron- 
delle, and so reached their destination much sooner than 
would otherwise have been possible. The party con- 
sists of seven men— the mate and six seamen — and 
their narrative extinguishes the last faint hope that 
Captain Erie might have escaped a watery grave. This 
gallant sailor remained on his vessel to the last, and, 
having sent off one boat, was preparing to launch the 
second, when, with an unexpected lurch, the ship went 
down, carrjdng all on board with her. Once more we 
must record our regret at the accident which has thus 
cut short the valuable life of one so well fitted for use- 
fulness and honor. Captain Erie leaves a large circle 
of fiisnds who will long deplore his loss.” 


IV . — From a New York paper of November 16, 186-s 

“Married, yesterday, at the house of the Eev. 
J. W. Gueiin, Ermine H61^ne, only child of the late 
Gustave St. Amand, of Fort de France, in the island of 
Martinique, and Eaymond Erie, of Charleston, South 
Carolina. 

“ Charleston and Martinique papers please copy.” 


CHAPTER I. 

DOES TRUTH SOUND BITTER? 

“ Christmas comes but once a year,” say 
the children, regretfully ; but it is likely that 
their elders, as a general rule, are heartily 
glad of the fact — for, to all, save the ex- 
tremely youthful, Christmas represents more 
of annoyance than of pleasure. It is a glori- 
ous and thrice-blessed season, regarded from, 
the Christian point of view ; but, regarded 
from the side of the earth earthy — a side 
which unluckily every thing more or less pos 
sesses — ^it is a season from which the vast ma» 
jority of people shrink nervously ; a season 
when the poverty of those poor whom we 
“ have always with us ” seems to weigh more 
heavily upon them than at other times, by con- 
trast with the wealth and luxury so lavishly 
displayed ; a season when heads of families 
are sometimes driven to absolute frenzy in the 
effort to accomplish that financial result known 
as “ making both ends meet ; ” a season when 
parties, balls, receptions, and all those gather- 


DOES TRUTH SOUND BITTER? 


65 


ings which go to make “society,” are in full 
blast, and when aU the heartaches and head- 
aches, the torn dresses and torn affections, 
the outrivaled jewels and rejected addresses, 
which accompany them, are in full blast also ; 
a season when dolls and tea-sets, hobby-horses 
and drums, are rampant, when one’s house is 
filled, one’s pockets emptied, and one’s tem- 
per, like as not, ruffled to a degree from which 
it will not recover for some time. 

Yes, Christmas comes but once a year, 
and it came with a leaden sky and stiff 
northeaster to Charleston on the 24th of 
December in that year- which had given to 
Alan Erie and Ermine St. Amand their happy 
May-time of youth and love. The gay little 
city wore her gayest holiday dress, the shops 
were thronged with eager purchasers, the 
streets filled with bright faces, and various 
penny trumpets had already sounded the pre- 
lude of that discord which was to break forth 
at nightfall, when a tall, handsome man with 
something unmistakably sailor-like in his ap- 
pearance, a man who was followed by an im- 
mense leonine dog, entered t’ne warehouse of 
Erie & Co., and asked the first clerk he met if 
Mr. Raymond Erie was in the counting-room. 
The clerk in question was a new-eomer, and 
did not recognize his interlocutor. Being in 
a preoccupied and Christmas-eve frame of mind, 
he barely glanced at the speaker, saw that he 
was evidently a person of some consequence, 
despite a rough pea-jacket and a loose hand- 
kerchief knotted around his throat, and, an- 
swering in the affirmative, said something about 
“ stating business ” and “ letting Mr. Erie 
know.” 

The sailor smiled a little, and, with a single 
motion of the hand, stayed his steps. “ I won’t 
trouble you to let him know,” he said. “ I 
will see him myself. — Stay here, Nix ! ” he 
added, to his canine companion. Tho dog 
crouched obediently down, and, before the clerk 
could expostulate or interfere, the stranger 
had passed into the inner sanctuary of trade. 

As it chanced, Raymond Erie was alone. 
On the eve of the great holiday, he was sitting 
at the desk, his slight figure bent over an 
enormous pile of^ ledgers, while the clerks 
lounged aimlessly about the warehouse, and 
even the book-keeper read a newspaper o-^er 
the fire of the outer room. In truth, the ac- 
counts of the firm needed the careful revising 
of the master-eye and master-han^’, -and on 
this the junior partner — looking more pale and 
5 


thin than when we saw him last — was deeply 
intent. Hearing the door open, he looked up, 
frowning, from a balance - sheet. The tall 
figure standing before him uncovered with a 
smile. 

“ Merry Christmas, Raymond ! ” he said. 
“You see I am back, like a bad penny, after 
all ! ” 

Raymond Erie sprang from his seat, white 
to the lips, and quivering like a man who meets 
the ghost of one long dead. 

“ Good God ! ” he gasped, clutching at the 
table — “ Alan ! ” 

“Alan, or his ghost,” said the other, ad- 
vancing nearer with a smile, “ only I’d make 
rather a substantial ghost, don’t you think so ? 
It is flesh and blood, beyond a doubt ; shake 
hands and see ! By Jove, my dear fellow, how 
glad I am glad to see you again ! ” 

One would have thought that these cor- 
dial words should have come from the other, 
from the pale man who barely suffered his hand 
to be pressed in his brother’s earnest grasp, as 
he managed to say : 

“ What an extraordinary surprise, Alan ! 
For Heaven’s sake, where do you come from ? 
— how did you escape ? — and why didn’t you 
write ? ” s 

“ Where do I come from ? ” repeated Alan, 
with some surprise. “ From the brig Dolores, 
out from Rio Janeiro, that has just dropped 
her anchor in the bay. How did I escape? 
That’s a long story, and can be given in full 
another time ; only I can tell you that, if it 
hadn’t been for Nix, I should be at the bottom 
of the Atlantic now. Why didn’t I write ? 
Why, I did write from Rio to Ermine. Has she 
never received the letter ? ” 

“ N — ever.” 

“ And she — you all — thought I was dead 
until this minute ? ” 

“ Until this minute, I as.sure you.” 

“Good Heavens! what a lucky thing that 
I did not go up to the house and startle her I 
You must go at once and break the news to 
her, Raymond. She ” — through his bronzed 
skin it was evident that he paled a little as he 
asked the question — “ she is quite well, is she 
not ? ” 

Raymond’s hand went suddenly to his throat 
and pulled open his cravat. “ What devil’s 
luck ! ” he thought, “ has brought him to 
me ! ” 

“ She ? — Ermine, do you mean ? ” he asked 
aloud — nervously anxious to gain a little time. 


66 


EBB-TIDE. 


“ Ermine, of course,” answered Alan, ren- 
dered suspicious by this hesitation. “ Who else 
should I mean ? For God’s sake, speak quickly ! 
Is she well ? ” 

“ She is quite well.” 

Hoarsely and with an effort, these few 
words were spoken — so hoarsely, with so much 
effort, despite all the speaker’s well-trained 
powers of dissimulation, that Alan would have 
been both blind and deaf if he had not noticed 
it. One other step brought him close to his 
brother’s side ; and he grasped his arm with no 
gentle fingers. 

“ Raymond,” he said, shortly, “ you have 
something to tell me. Out with it at once ! I 
am no woman, to have news ‘ broken ’ to me. 
Is she sick ? — is she dying ? — is ” — he almost 
choked here — “ is she dead ? ” 

, “ She is neither sick, nor dying, nor dead,” 
answered Raymond. “ I — I will tell you all 
about it, Alan, if you will sit down and hear me 
patiently.” 

But, instead of sitting down, Alan tightened 
his gi’asp until it was many a long day before 
the mark of those muscular fingers left his 
brother’s arm. 

“Tell me,” he repeated, savagely — “tell 
me at once, or, by God, I will tear it from 
your throat ! Where is she ? — how is she ? ” 

Now, Raymond Erie was no coward — physi- 
cally, indeed, there were few braver men — yet 
there was something in the face confronting 
him, and perhaps — who knows ? — something 
also in his own conscience, that made him 
shrink and quail. 

“ For Heaven’s sake,” he expostulated, “re- 
member that we thought you were dead.” 

“ That is outside the question,” said Alan, 
sternly. “ Once more, and for the last time, I 
repeat, where is Ermine ? — what has she 
done V ” 

The answer came in three short words, 
trenchant as steel, and cold as ice : 

“ She is married.” 

“ Married ! ” 

Alan heard, but, as is often the case with 
some great and sudden shock, scarcely under- 
stood the woi’d he repeated. His hand still re- 
tained its grasp, but through all its sunburnt 
hue his face grew ashy white, and his eyes 
opened in startled amazement on his brother. 
If he had heard that she was dead, he could at 
least have comprehended the height and depth 
of the calamity ; but now — 

“ Raymond,” he said, hoarsely, “ what do 


you mean ? You are mistaken — you don’t un* 
derstand — it is of Ermine I am speaking. You 
dare not tell me that she is — is — ” 

“ Married,” said Raymond, as coldly and 
mercilessly as before. Then tohiinself, “ Thank 
God, it is over ! ” 

It was over indeed with Alan. The strong 
man staggered back as men stagger under 
a mortal blow, and sat down in a chair without 
another word. What, indeed, could he say ? 
What do any of us say when the stroke of 
some keen dagger goes home to our hearts ? 

Raymond stood still and watched him. 
Even at that moment, he had time to curse the 
unlucky fate which had failed to bring the 
letter that would have prepared him for this. 
Hypocrite as he was, he was not enough of a 
hypocrite to go forward and put his hand on 
his brother’s shoulder, or to utter any words 
of condolence or regret. Besides, he was not 
sure that it might prove safe. There may be 
death in a lion’s claws even after he has got 
his mortal wound. So he stood watchfully 
quiet and on guard, till Alan looked up with a 
face which hardly seemed his own, so drawn 
and changed was it. Meeting his brother’s 
eyes again, he rose to his feet and confronted 
him. 

“ Raymond,” he said, huskily, “ it depends 
upon one word whether from henceforth we 
are brothers or mortal enemies. Whom did 
she ” — he could not force his dry tongue to utter 
her name — “ marry ? ” 

There was a glance in his eye, a tone of 
menace in his voice, that made Raymond Erie 
hesitate and look round as if for some weapon 
of defence, before he answered. Finding none, 
however, he threw back his shoulders and 
folded his arms defiantly. The worst had 
come ; through any thing and over any thing 
the game must be played to its end now. 

“ Alan,” he said, trying to speak kindly, 
“ believe me I am deeply sorry — believe me 
this never would have occurred if we had not 
believed — ” 

Alan cut him short — sternly and deci- 
sively. 

“I want no lying excuses to gloss the 
truth,” he said. “ Did she marry you ? ” 

“Yes, she married me,” Raymond an- 
swered, thinking that, after all, he bore the 
revelation with encouraging quietness. “You 
must let me remind you of one thing,” he went 
on — as his listener stood stunned, quiescent, 
simply looking at him — “ my claim on Ermine 


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lie literally flung him from his hand, and leaving him stunned, almost senseless, strode from the office. 







DOES TRUTH SOUND BITTER? 


61 


Wras prior to yours, and, although she may very 
likely have deceived you in the matter — ” 

The next instant he found himself pinned 
against the wall, with his brother’s hand on 
his throat. 

“ You are an infernal hypocrite and scoun- 
drel and liar ! ” said Alan, with his eyes gleam- 
ing like blue steel. “ Do you dare to slander 
her to me, though you were ten times married 
to her ? The devil only knows by what arts 
of hell you have gained your point, and gained 
her fortune ; but, if the same blood were not in 
our veins, I would kill you where you stand ! 
As it is, I warn you that no law of God or man 
shall stand between us if so much as one hair 
of her head has been injured ! Now go, like 
the carrion that you are ! I will find the truth 
elsewhere.” 

He literally flung him from his hand, and, 
leaving him stunned, almost senseless, strode 
from the office. 

Outside the door, an eager group was 
awaiting his appearance. The sight of Nix 
told the story of his master’s return ; and 
round the dog were gathered the book-keeper, 
the clerks, and two or three outsiders who had 
heard the news, and were on the qul vive to 
see the sailor who had been dead and was 
alive, had been lost and was found. When he 
came out, half a dozen hands were thrust for- 
ward at once in cordial welcome — that welcome 
which not one of his own kindred was likely to 
give him. 

Now, Alan was “ game ” to the backbone, 
and so it is scarcely necessary to say that, stag- 
gering as he yet was under that cruel blow 
which had been dealt him so suddenly and un- 
expectedly, he gave no outward token of the 
fact beyond that pallor which sat so strangely 
on his sunburnt face. He smiled in his old 
frank, genial fashion — smiled, however, only 
with the lips, not with the eyes — as he grasped 
one after the other the hands extended to him, 
saying to each man a few words of cordial 
thanks. 

But they did not detain him long. All 
their hope of hearing some thrilling story of 
hair-breadth escape was nipped in the bud. 
Without a discourteous word, or look, or tone. 
Captain Erie made them understand that, hav- 
ing offered their congratulations, they must 
fall back and let him go his way, free from mo- 
lestation. This they did after first wishing him 
with genuine heartiness a merry Christmas in 
celebration of his return. 


“ Thanks,” said he, with a slight, almost 
imperceptible quiver of the lip. “ I have 
looked forward to this Christmas for many 
days,” he went on, with a vibration of pathos 
which the ears of his hearers were not suffi- 
ciently finely-strung to catch. “ I hope — I 
sincerely hope — that it may prove a happy one 
to you all.” 

They murmured their thanks ; and, with a 
bow which each man appropriated as a special 
compliment to himself, he passed from among 
them, followed by Nix. 

Out into the crowded holiday streets he 
went, out among the gay holiday crowd ; crowd 
not so intent upon its business of pleasure, but 
that many old friends recognized the returned 
wanderer, and greeted him with amazement 
and delight. Poor Alan ! Brave as he was, 
his endurance and self-control were tried to 
their utmost within the hour following his de- 
parture from the counting-house where he had 
left his brother. Everybody was overjoyed to 
see him, everybody was eager to welcome him 
back with enthusiasm, and more eager (with 
natural curiosity) to hear his story. But no- 
body heard it save in the baldest and barest 
outline. Courtesy bore him through the or- 
deal — together with a dull, leaden, yet unreal- 
ized sense that all was over — but talk at length 
he could not. After the fii’St congratulations 
and inquiries, people felt, as the clerks of Erie 
& Co. had already felt, that they were detain- 
ing a man who was feverishly anxious to ac- 
complish some end apart from them. They 
hoped to see him soon again, and to hear his 
story, they said ; so, bidding him merry Christ- 
mas, they passed on. 

Merry Christmas ! Ah, happy the heart 
whose grief has never felt the sting of mockery 
in those words of peace and good-will, whose 
leaden heaviness has never been beyond the 
reach of Christmas smiles and cheer ; happy 
the eyes that have never been too thickly 
blinded by tears to catch a gleam of earth’s 
brightness, or even of that brightness not 
of earth, which streams from the Manger 
of Bethlehem ; thrice happy the soul for 
whom no bitter trouble or dust-stained care 
has ever darkened this most fair and glorious 
Feast of all the Christian year ! Trouble seems 
twice trouble, grief more than grief, when every 
voice — human and divine — bids us lift our 
heavy lids and rejoice. We turn our eyes 
from the brightness, we close our ears to the 
mirth, we cry out, “ This is not for us ! ” and 


68 


EBB-TIDE. 


we forget — 0 hearts of little faith! — what 
few, short steps, along the bloody Via Crucis, 
lead from Bethlehem to Calvary, from the 
new-born King to the crucified God ! 

The words of Christmas greeting which fell 
from* every lip scarcely jarred on Alan, how- 
ever — at least not yet. His preoccupation was 
too great. Wounded and bleeding as he was, 
he felt also dizzy. He could not rid himself 
of the thought that he was going to Ermine — 
Ids Ermine — to the meeting for which his 
faithful heart had yearned, which his faithful 
fancy had painted, through all these months 
of absence. Married 1 He said it over and 
over to himself, but, say it as often as he would, 
he could not realize it. He had not yet realized 
it when his footsteps paused on the well-known 
threshold of the Erie house. There he stopped 
a moment. How could he meet her ? What 
should he say to her ? He knew that some 
black treachery had been at work to make her 
seem so bitterly faithless ; but, none the less, 
a gulf had been dug between them which no 
human power could span. His Ermine — his 
pure, spotless lily — had been wrested from him, 
and the robber who had done the deed was no 
man whom he could shoot down like a dog, but 
his own father’s son 1 Alan was not much 
more than a savage, as he thought of the cruel 
and enduring wrong that had been done to the 
tender and helpless creature whom his supposed 
death had left unfriended. He steeled himself 
against all the tender memories of love (mem- 
ories which would only have unnerved him), 
and thought only of the stern duty of ven- 
geance, when at last he put his hand on the 
bell, and sent a resounding peal through the 
house. 

The servant who opened the door looked 
so amazed — so utterly aghast — at sight of him, 
that he remembered for the first time his 
ghostly character. 

“ It is I, Robin, not a spirit,” he said, with 
a faint smile. “ Don’t look so scared 1 There, 
isn’t that real? ” 

He held out his hand as he had held it for 
the same purpose to his brother, and Robin — 
who had known him from their common boy- 
hood — seized it in a grasp different indeed from 
the fraternal one, his whole face changing from 
amazement to delight. 

“ ’Fore God, Mass Alan, I’m glad and hap- 
py to see you back, sir ! ” he said, forgetting 
his usual decorous “ Captain Erie,” in the ex- 
citement of the moment. “ I always said there 


wasn’t water deep enough to drown you, sir , 
but we all heard, sir, that you were drownded, 
and no mistake about it.” 

“ I wasn’t though, you see — the worse for 
me, perhaps I Thank you for being so glad to 
see me, Robin. I am not sorry that somebody 
is glad — here. How are — all ? ” 

“ All very well, thank you, sir ; but 
Robin hesitated a moment — “but our family 
is not as large as it was when you left us. Mass 
Alan.” 

“ I suppose not,” said Alan, turning away 
— for he did not wish even a servant to read 
his face just then. “ Is any one in here ? ” he 
went on, walking toward the familiar sitting- 
room. 

“ No one at all, sir,” said Robin, going for- 
ward to open the door. “ Shall I let my mis- 
tress know that you are here ? ” 

“ No — let Miss Ermine know.” (He would 
not say “ Miss St. Amand,” and the tortures 
of the rack could not have drawn the other 
name from him.) 

Robin stood motionless — transfixed, as it 
were, by astonishment — with the door-handle 
in his fingers. 

“ Miss Ermine ! ” he repeated ; “ I thought 
you knew, sir. She’s — she’s married 1 ” 

“ I do know,” said Alan, through his set 
teeth.' “ All the same, let her know that I am 
here.” 

“ But she^s not here, sir 1 ” said Robin, with 
his eyes like saucers. 

It was now Captain Erie’s turn to stare. 

“ Not here ! ” he repeated. “ What do 
you mean ? Where is she, then ? ” 

“ She’s in Mart-neck, sir,” said Robin, with 
dignity. “ Miss Ermine has never been back 
since she was married.” 

“ In Martinique 1 ” Alan was absolutely 
stunned. “ Are you mad ? ” he asked. “ Do 
you know that — that Raymond Erie is in the 
city ? ” 

“ Mr. Raymond came back only last week, 
sir — and he said he left Miss Ermine quite 
well, and so pleased with the island she 
wouldn’t leave it. I assure you, sir, she has 
never been back since she went away last 
summer.” 

“ Last summer I Where was she mar- 
ried ? ” 

“In New York, sir.” » 

There was silence for a long minute — then 
Captain Erie walked into the sitting-room, 
saying, briefly : 


THE TRUTH ELSEWHERE. 


69 


“ Tell Miss Lautrec that I will be glad to 
see her.” 

“ Miss Lautrec is in Europe, sir,” answered 
Robin, compassionating this wonderful degree 
of ignorance, yet not insensible to the pleasure 
of enlightening it — that curious pleasure which 
the vulgar always feel in telling news either 
good or bad. 

“ What ! ” said Alan, facing round in new 
astonishment. 

“ Miss Lautrec is in Europe, sir,” repeated 
Robin, modestly. “ I told you, sir, that the 
family is a good deal changed. Miss Mar- 
garet’s married, and so is Miss Ermine, and 
Miss Madelon’s gone away.” 

“ Is anybody left ? ” asked Alan, gazing at 
him in a sort of blank desperation. 

“ Mrs. Erie is at home, sir, and Miss 
Louise, and Mass Regy.” 

“ Tell Mrs. Erie that I shah be glad to see 
her.” 

He said these words almost mechanically, 
and, as Robin closed the door, he looked 
round the room, searching wistfully for some 
token of the presence for which his heart was 
yearning. Alas ! there was not one. Like 
the golden May sunshine, that presence had 
passed away, and the place which knew it 
once would know it never again. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE TRUTH ELSEWHERE. 

Robin’s announcement to his mistress, that 
Captain Erie — “ Mass Alan that we heard was 
drownded, ma’am ” — desired to see her, proved 
by no means the shock which he had doubt- 
less anticipated. He had not been in the 
secret of a note which was brought to the 
house by a panting messenger and delivered 
into Mrs. Erie’s own hand, half an hour be- 
fore. The first use which Raymond had made 
of his recovered senses was to scribble three 
lines of warning to Ermine’s mother : 

“ Alan has turned up, as you prophesied, 
and received the news like a madman. He 
will come to you for particulars. For God’s 
Bake, take care what you say to him ! 

“ R. E.” 

Thus warned — thus given half an hour for 
reflection — Mrs. Erie, who was a born Talley- 
rand in petticoats — felt justified in considering 


herself fully equal to the emergency. She 
went down-stairs with her mind fully made up 
concerning every word she meant to utter. A 
distrust of her own diplomatic address did 
not once occur to her, for she had known Alan 
of old as entirely so belonging to that class 
of men who are like wax in a clever woman’s 
hands, that she had no doubt of finding him 
plastic under her fingers. “ Men are so 
clumsy,” she thought to herself, in that scorn 
with which women often repay the cool superi- 
ority of the stronger sex ; and, so thinking, 
entered the sitting-room with one hand ex- 
tended in cordial welcome — now, as ever, the 
stately and gracious lady whom Alan well re- 
membered. 

“ My dear Alan, this is a most unexpected 
pleasure ! ” she said, in the old, clear, well- 
modulated voice, which somehow seemed to 
him now to have a metallic ring. “ I cannot 
tell you how happy I am to see you back 
again — alive and well ! It has been such a 
long time since your shipwreck that we had 
almost surrendered all hope of your escape. 
It is true, I still trusted that you might return ; 
but then a woman is more influenced by her 
own wishes than by reason, you know. Have 
you only just arrived ? ” (This, with a glance 
at his costume.) 

Alan looked at a small French clock over 
the mantel before which he stood. 

“ I landed two hours ago,” he answered, 
briefly — and, as he said it, he stopped a mo- 
ment to wonder if it was only two hours. 

“Indeed ! How kind of you to come at 
once ! ” said Mrs. Erie, still graceful, still cor- 
dial. “ Of course, you are going to stay with 
us,” (He had never done such a thing be- 
fore ; and it was strange, to say the least, that 
she should imagine him likely to do it now.) 
“ Will you go to your room at once, or will 
you sit down” — (she drew a chair forward) — 
“ and let me hear the story of your escape ? 
I am sure it must be thrilling.” 

Now, next to his brother, Alan Erie’s heart 
was hardest toward this woman — this smiling, 
courteous model of elegant propriety — and he 
felt no inclination to spare her one of the bit- 
ter truths burning within him. He frowned a 
little as she drew forward the chair. Uncom- 
promising Arabian that he was in all his ideas 
of hospitality, it would have gone hard with 
him to accept even a seat under his enemy’s 
roof. 

“ If you will allow me to stand, I should 


70 


EBB-TIDE. 


prefer to do so,” said he, courteously but 
coldly. “I shall not detain you many min- 
utes. I did not come to claim your congratu- 
lations on my escape — which, just now, God 
knows, I cannot consider very fortunate — but 
to ask you a few plain questions. Few as 
they are, however, I must beg you not to let 
me detain yow standing while I ask them.” 

“ I am not in the habit of sitting while my 
guests remain standing,” said Mrs. Erie, with 
dignity. “ If your questions relate to my 
daughter,” she went on, “ I shall be happy to 
answer them ; although ” (she emphasized 
this), “ I do not recognize that you have any 
right to ask them.” 

“ No right ! ” he repeated. Steeled as he 
was against the rebuff which he had expected, 
the blood rushed over his cheek and brow at 
this cool retraction of the pledge once given 
him in that very room. “No right ! ” he said 
again. “ Allow me to ask if you have forgot- 
ten that I had the honor to be engaged to 
your daughter with your own consent ? ” 

“With my » sufferance,” quietly corrected 
Mrs. Erie. “If you will do me the justice to 
remember, I merely tolerated the engagement 
until Ermine’s guardian could be communicated 
with. I have every reason to believe that 
Colonel Vivieux would have regarded the 
affair exactly as I did and therefore any one 
would hold me justified in considering that no 
actual engagement ever existed. A foolish 
love-affair is quite a different thing. This was 
the view which I forcibly represented to Er- 
mine before her marriage.” 

“ And found a willing listener, apparent- 
ly ! ” said Allan, bitterly. 

Yet the words were hardly spoken before 
he repented them, and, true as the needle to 
the magnet, his heart flew back to its allegiance. 
No ! Let circumstances say what they would, 
let the whole world say what it would, he 
defied any or all of them to shake his faith in 
the gentle creature who had ever been to him 
so “ tender and true.” Is it De Maistre who 
says that mankind should be divided into two 
classes, “le chat et le chien?” Certainly 
Alan had much of the canine nature in his 
stubborn, dogged fidelity. There was in him 
no making of an Othello. A thousand hand- 
kerchiefs would not have shaken his trust in 
the woman he loved. They had played him 
false, they had wronged her deeply, they had 
parted them forever ; but, none the less, she 
still remained firm on her pedestal, a pure, 


faithful, passionate woman, who might be bei 
trayed, but who could never betray. 

“ My daughter proved herself amenable to 
reason,” answered Mrs. Erie, coldly. “ I should 
have been exeedingly disappointed in her if 
she had not done so.” 

“ Did she prove herself amenable to reason 
or compulsion ? ” asked Alan, striving hard 
for self-control. “ Knowing Ermine as long 
and as well as I have done, I cannot believe — 
and, by the God who will judge me, I do not 
believe — that she acted in such a manner of 
her own free will and choice ! ” 

Mrs. Erie drew herself up haughtily. 

“ When I agreed to answer your questions, 

I should have made a reservation that they 
should be sufficiently respectful to be worthy 
of attention,” she said. “Since you have 
known Ermine so long and so well, you might 
also have known her stubborn and intractable 
disposition. Will you tell me how I should 
have set about exercising ‘ compulsion ’ over 
a self-willed girl whom the law emancipated 
from every shadow of my control ? ” 

“ There are many modes' of compulsion 
besides those of which the law takes cogni- 
zance,” said Alan, bitterly, “in all of which 
you, madam, are, I am sure, an able proficient. 
At least you cannot deny that it has always 
been your wish that your daughter should 
marry my brother.” 

“ I have no intention of denying it,” said 
Mrs. Erie, speaking still with haughty dignity. 
“ My daughter has always been a source of 
great anxiety to me, and I have always desired 
to see her happily married to some man who 
could bear patiently with, and yet firmly con- 
trol, her wayward fancies. Your brother is 
such a man, and his suit received from the 
first my warmest sanction.” 

'“ Yet you were kind enough to give this 
same sanction to engagement.” 

“Pardon me” (she made an ineffable, and 
as it seemed, inexpressible gesture of scorn), 
“ I gave only my tolerance to that. To have 
given more would have been impossible — yet, 
under the circumstances, I could not give 
less.” 

“ And these circumstances were — ? ” 

f 

“ The fact that I was not Ermine’s 
guardian.” 

“ You were her mother.” 

“ Yes, I was her mother,” said Mrs. Erie, 
with one single flash of her clear, hazel eyes — 
the scabbards had been thrown away before 


THE TRUTH ELSEWHERE. 


71 


this, and for the first (and last) time, the 
naked swords of these two combatants 
clashed blade against blade — “ and, as her 
mother, I felt deeply disappointed and deeply 
wounded by her choice.” 

Alan suddenly raised his hand to his face. 
He did not choose that his adversary should 
see how the strong, white teeth involuntarily 
went deep into his lip under the shade of the 
heavily-fringing mustache. Even when he 
spoke — and that was after a minute — his voice 
shook a little. 

“ And may I venture to ask if Colonel 
Vivieux agreed with you in your view of the 
engagement ? ” 

Mrs. Erie looked at him a little curiously — 
this savage of the sea, who seemed in utter ig- 
norance of facts long since grown old and stale 
to the dwellers of the land. 

“ Colonel Vivieux never heard of the affair 
at all,” she answered. “ He was dead before 
the news of it reached Martinique.” 

Alan passed his hand over his eyes. He 
felt like one who, having waked from sleep, 
begins to recall some dormant recollection. 

“ I had forgotten that Ermine’s first letter 
contained the news of her guardian’s death,” 
he said aloud. Then in a lower tone : “ My 
poor darling ! so you had not even one friend 
to fight your battle for you ! ” 

There was silence after this for several 
seconds. Standing strictly on the defensive, 
it was no part of Mrs. Erie’s policy to speak 
first, and Alan shrank nervously — shrank “ like 
a woman,” as he indignantly thought to him- 
self — from opening the immediate subject of 
the marriage. At last, however, he steeled 
himself and spoke. 

“ Will you allow me to inquire the date of 
Miss St. Amand’s marriage ? ” 

“The 16th of November,” answered Mrs. 
Erie, briefly. 

“ And may I also ask when she heard the 
news of ray shipwreck ? ” 

“ As well as I remember, it was somewhere 
about the middle of October.” 

“ And did she accept the fact of my death 
at once, or did she require a little time to 
verify it ? ” 

“ She accepted it at once,” said Mrs. Erie, 
decidedly, “ especially after she had seen the 
sailor — your mate, I think — who escaped.” 

At these words, the scarlet blood rushed 
hi a tide over Alan’s face. 

“ She saw that cowardly dog ! ” he said. 


“ She took the account of my death fi’om him . 
My God, madam, if it had not been for that man, 
none of my poor fellows would have been lost, 
and I myself should not have needed to be 
saved almost as it were by a miracle ! ” He 
said this passionately — then stopped, and the 
blood died down again.“ My story will not in- 
terest you,” he went on ; “ so I will not weary 
you with it. I came home full of hope and faith 
and happiness — all of which one hour has end- 
ed. But I have something yet to do. I have 
to hear the truth of her marriage from Ermine’s 
own lips, and to right her, wherever or how- 
ever she has been wronged. This is my work ; 
and for this I shall always believe that God 
brought me back to life out of the jaws of 
death.” 

The concentrated passion and resolve of 
his two last sentences seemed to move Mrs. 
Erie a little. She looked at him, and there 
was a slight whitening about the lips, which 
betrayed that she felt some emotion when he 
mentioned Ermine’s name. 

“ I waive any notice of the insult which 
your suspicions are to me,” she said. “For 
the gratification of my curiosity, I should like 
to know what you suspect. Who could have 
wronged Ermine? — or what interest do you 
imagine that I, her mother, could have had in 
suffering her to be wronged ? ” 

Alan replied by taking from the inner 
pocket of his coat a very battered-looking 
pocket-book of Russia leather. From this he 
extracted several letters, discolored with salt- 
water, and handed to Mrs. Erie. 

“ W^ill you look at these, madam,” he said, 
“ and will you judge whether I am likely to 
credit that the woman who wrote these letters 
— the woman whom I have known from her 
childhood as the most faithful of God’s 
creatures — could willingly have married an- 
other man in less then a month after she heard 
of my supposed death ? ” 

Mrs. Erie declined the letters by a gesture. 
She had no sentimental weakness about the 
matter ; but it would have been exceedingly 
disagreeable to her to read the words of pas- 
sionate affection addressed by her daughter 
to this man whom she hated as much as it was 
in her to hate anybody. 

“ Such evidence as this is apart from the 
question entirely,” she said. “I decline to 
read the record of a folly which my daughter 
has happily outlived. Your obstinacy,” she 
went on, “ compels me to assure you that if vou 


12 


EBB-TIDE. 


had not been shipwrecked — if your voyage had 
been successfully accomplished — you would 
not have found Ermine the foolish girl you left 
her.” 

“You mean — ?” 

“ I mean that she had begun to’ appreciate 
life a little better, and to learn — what many 
another woman has learned before — that her 
first matrimonial choice was a very unwise 
one.” 

“ In other words,” said Alan, with deter- 
mined calmness, “ you assert that she was pre- 
pared to break her engagement whether I 
proved to be dead or alive ? ” 

“Since you prefer to put it plainly,” said 
Mrs. Erie, with decided dignity, “ I confess 
that I am prepared to assert and to maintain 
that fact.” 

“ Then, madam,” said he, curtly, “ you com- 
pel me to decide between your assertion and 
my knowledge of your daughter. When Er- 
mine assures me of such a fact with her own 
lips, I shall believe it — not before ! ” 

The lady flushed a little, enough to show 
that she felt the full meaning of his words. 
“Mindful as I am of the excitement under 
which you are laboring,” she said, with stately 
hauteur^ “it is impossible for me to endure 
such a conversation as this much longer. Will 
you be kind enough to end it, or shall I be 
forced to leave the room ? ” 

“ I am sorry to have inflicted my society 
upon you even for these few minutes,” he an- 
swered. “ I should be still more sorry to inflict 
it upon you any longer. With one more ques- 
tion, I am done. Will you tell me why Miss 
St. Amand was not married in Charleston ? ” 

“ That is easily answered,” said Mrs. Erie, 
coldly. “ We had been spending the summer in 
Canada, and since it was necessary that Ermine 
should go to Martinique to look after her prop- 
erty — Colonel Vivieux being dead — we con- 
cluded that it would be better to hasten the 
marriage so that she could sail at once from 
New York.” 

Alan answered nothing. What could he 
say to such reasons as these ? They looked 
plausible enough on the outside, but a voice 
within him cried, “ False, false, false ! ” 

“ I regret not being able to see Miss Lau- 
trec,” he said, at last. “ I had hoped — very 
much hoped — to meet her.” 

“ Madelon also left us in New York,” said 
Mrs. Erie. “ An opportunity offered, and she 
sailed for Havre, intending to spend some time 


with her relations in France. By a chancGj 
her departure was given in the same papei 
which published Ermine’s marriage.” 

She crossed the floor, and, opening a smaL 
secretary, took from it a newspaper.- Return- 
ing, she pointed out two paragraphs to Alan. 
One was the marriage of Ermine Helene St. 
Amand to Raymond Erie ; the other, the name 
of Miss Lautrec in a list of passengers who had 
sailed for Havre in the steamer Golden Bells. 
Thinking at the time merely of the paragraphs 
in question, it was not until afterward that 
the manner in which the paper had been re- 
tained and brought forward struck Alan as a 
little singular. 

When he laid it down, Mrs. Erie saw that 
the interview was at an end. He turned to go, 
and his last words-r-being indeed the very last 
that were ever spoken between them — were 
such as she was not likely to forget. 

“ I came to you for the turth, madam,” he 
said. “ I have obtained only evasion. But 
this I beg you to remember — I will have that 
truth. I resign my profession, I put aside 
every aim and object of my life, until I shall 
explore this mystery — for mystery it is to me 
— to the bottom. And I warn you — Ermine’s 
mother — as I have already warned the man 
who calls himself her husband, that, when the 
day of reckoning comes, I will return a 
hundredfold, upon those who have wronged 
her, every pang which she may have suffered, 
and every tear which she may have shed ! ” 

She did not answer. With those passionate 
words still vibrating on the air, he turned and 
left the room. 


CHAPTER III. 

“ GO TO MARTINIQUE ! ” 

“ Alan ! Is it possible this is you, I ” 
These words, accompanied by a half-startled 
cry, fell on Captain Erie’s ears as he was 
making his way, with an apathetic disregard of 
the comfort of other people, through a crowd 
which jammed the sidewalk almost to suffoca- 
tion before a large fancy establishment on King 
Street. He turned sharply — wondering a little 
who would be likely to call his name in that 
familiar tone — and faced a beautiful, golden- 
haired woman who, followed by a servant with 
his arms full of bundles, was stepping across 
the pavement to her carriage. The color had 


“GO TO MARTINIQUE!” 


73 


fled from her cheeks, and her turquoise eyes 
expanded with amazement, almost with fright, 
as she looked at him. As he turned, she put 
out one daintily-gloved hand and touched his 
sleeve. 

“ Alan I ” she gasped, rather than said. “ Is 
it — is it you ? ” 

“ Of course it is,” answered Alan, recogniz- 
ing her in a moment. “ My dear Margaret, 
don’t look so frightened ! It is I, in veritable 
flesh and blood ; and very glad I am to see you 
again. Must I congratulate you on having 
changed your name and estate ? ” he went on, 
taking her hand and looking at her with a 
smile. She was of his own kindred, and she, 
at least, had done nothing to wrong him. Why 
should he not smile and be honestly glad to 
see her ? 

Instead of answering his question, however, 
Margaret, according to her old habit, burst into 
tears. 

“ 0 Alan ! Alan 1 ” she cried, “ they told 
me you were dead 1 ” 

“ Instead of that, however, you see that I 
am alive,” answered he, considerably astonished 
by this unexpected display of emotion. “My 
dear cousin, let me put you into your car- 
riage,” he continued, as he saw how the scene 
was drawing an interested crowd around them. 
“ You almost make me think that you are dis- 
tressed to find me alive 1 ” he said, with a 
smiling attempt to quiet her, as he drew her 
hand within his arm, and led her to the car- 
riage. 

“ No, no I ” cried Margaret, with a tragic 
emphasis which amazed him. “ God knows 
how glad I am, Alan — how truly, honestly glad 
— to see you back in safety. I would have 
done any thing sooner than — than been fflad 
that you were dead.” 

“ Indeed, I should really hope so,” said he, 
smiling .again. “ What possible reason could 
I have for suspecting you of such an enormity ? 
Are your bundles all in safety ? Yes, that’s 
right ! Now tell me where you live, so that I 
can come to see you soon, and good-by.” 

He put out his hand. But the words had 
not left his lips before Margaret interposed 
eagerly : 

“ No, you must come with me now. I am 
8:.re you are not going anywhere — at least 
anywhere that matters. Come, Alan — I in- 
sist upon it ! I have so much to say to you.” 

He hesitated ; but, as she had said, he was 
00 1 going anywhere that mattered^ and he felt 


in that mood of recklessness when one is glad 
to escape from the society of one’s self into 
any other whatever. Besides, she was his cous- 
in, and she was glad to see him. His heart — 
yearning for hopeless affection — caught even 
at this. 

“ Really, Margaret,” he began, wavering 
and evasive. 

But Margaret swept aside her silken skirts, 
and beckoned him imperiously into the car- 
riage. 

“ Come ! ” she said. “ You rmtst come ; I 
will take no denial. What ! risen from the 
dead, as it were, and leave me like this I 
Come I ” 

Her feverish anxiety influenced him, 
whether he would or no. He entered the car- 
riage, the footman closed the door, and they 
rolled away. 

Then the crowd began to chatter ! Heaven 
only knows how many different versions and 
interpretations of the scene flew from lip to lip, 
the favorite rendition being a modified form 
of “ Auld Robin Gray.” 

“ Did you hear about Margaret Erie ? ” 
people asked each other. “ You know every- 
body said she married Mr. Saxton against her 
will, while she was really in love with that 
cousin of hers who turned sailor, and was 
drowned, or reported to be drowned at sea. 
Well, it was all true enough. On Christmas- 
Eve she suddenly met him — the cousin, I 
mean — just as she was coming out of Guth- 
rie’s, and, right before everybody, she went 
off at once into hysterics, assuring him she 
would never have married if she had not 
thought he was dead ! ” 

The subjects of this bit of popular history 
— then in active course of preparation — had 
meanwhile stopped before an “ elegant man- 
sion ” (that is the correct term for a comfort- 
able house, I believe), into which Captain Erie 
followed his cousin. The mansion in question 
was elegant within as well as without ; and the 
sailor, fresh from the sea, could not but be 
struck by the judicious manner in which the 
ethereal inspiration of poets and painters had 
in the end feathered her nest. 

“ I am inclined to think that, after all, Mar- 
garet, you made a wise choice,” he said, a lit- 
tle sardonically, as he was led into a dim, 
flower-scented, rose-hung, mirror-embellished 
room which Mrs. Saxton called her boudoir, 
and inducted into a chair that might have 
tempted an anchorite to repose. “ Love 


74 


EBB-TIDE. 


sometimes flies through the window,” pursued 
the cynic, “ but statues, and mirrors, and 
French furniture, are not disturbed by any 
such freaks of passion. One’s heart might 
break, but a chair like this would be a com- 
fort all the same.” 

“ I am not so sure of that,” said Margaret, 
laying aside her bonnet, and sinking into a 
corresponding chair, with her wealth of amber 
hair crowning her like the halo of a saint. 
“ Sometimes I would not care if it all did fly 
through the window,” she went on. “ Some- 
times, Alan, I can’t help thinking that I have 
paid a little too dear for — for every thing.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Alan, 
bluntly. “ Didn’t you choose your husband 
of your own free will ? That being the case, 
what right have you to complain because 
your bargain may not be exactly to your 
taste ? ” 

“ My own free will ! ” repeated Margaret, 
scornfully. “ I wonder when a man — a man 
like i/ow — ever comprehends that a woman’s 
free will, from her cradle to her grave, means 
less than nothing ? ‘No right to complain ! ’ 
I donU complain, I’d die before I would com- 
plain. My husband is good and kind to me — 
kinder by far than I deserve — but none the 
less I suffer more than you would believe if I 
were fool enough to tell you ! ” 

Tears rose to her eyes — hot, angry, scorch- 
ing tears ; but she choked them back. Life 
was beginning to teach even this spoiled but- 
terfly a little self-control, and the wisdom 
which is learned only by experience. Alan’s 
heart — always a tender heart to the distress 
of women or children — was touched. He 
leaned forward and took the hand with which 
she has just dashed away one or two briny 
drops. 

“ Forgive me if I spoke roughly,” he said. 
“ God knows I am the last man in the world 
to jest at scars, when I carry within my own 
heart a gaping wound. Come, Gretta” — this 
had been his name for ]ier when she was a 
child, and she had not heard it since — “ you 
used to be fond of me long ago, and, although 
of late years you have outgrown all the fond- 
ness and acquired instead a considerable de- 
gree of shame for your sailor-cousin, I am 
sure you still know that I can be trusted. 
Tell me your troubles — it will be some relief 
to you — and let me see if, two heads being 
Detter than one, we cannot find a remedy for 
them.” 


To his surprise, Margaret drew her hand 
quickly away from him, and shrank — ^nervous- 
ly shrank — into the depths of her chair. 
“ Don’t, Alan — don’t ! ” she gasped, rather 
than said. “ I — cannot ! ” 

“You mean you can’t talk of them?” 

“ Yes, I mean that. I can’t talk of them 
— at least not to i/ow.” 

“ Better talk of them to me than to any 
one else, Margaret. I would hold your confi- 
dence sacred.” 

“ And you think nobody else likely to do 
so? Well” (with a sigh), “you are right! 
You must not think that I have any complaint 
to make of my husband,” she went .on, with 
an eagerness which surprised him. “He is 
devoted to me — much more so than I deserve, 
as I cannot help thinking when I remember 
that I married him caring no more for him 
than for that dog of yours ! ” 

“ But you care for him now ? ” 

“Yes, I care more for him now,” answered 
she, a little doubtfully. “ He gives me every 
thing in the world I want, and is as kind as he 
can be ; but — but — ” 

Here the turquoise eyes filled up with 
tears again, while Alan’s face grew hard. He 
began to suspect that his cousin’s heart 
was still yearning after the accomplished gen- 
tleman whom he had the honor of calling 
brother. 

“ Margaret,” he said, sternly, “ I know you 
once had a foolish fancy for — for — ” he hesi- 
tated, struggled with himself, finally wrenched 
the words out, and fairly flung them at her — 
“for my brother; but it is impossible that you 
can still waste a thought on such a scoundrel ! 
If so—” 

An unexpected gesture from Margaret in- 
terrupted him here. Her eyes blazed through 
the tears which had welled into them, and she 
suddenly brought one foot down with an un- 
mistakable stamp on the carpet. 

“ He is a scoundrel ! ” she said. “ Thank 
you, Alan, for calling him so. No, I would 
tear my heart out sooner than — than care for 
him ! He has poisoned my life for me — that is 
what he has done ! It was bad enough while 
I thought you were dead,” she went on, with 
passionately-clisped hands and a strangely- 
excited face, “ but now— now — oh, I don’t 
know what to do ! ” 

She broke down in this way with another 
burst of tears, and Alan — after looking at hei 
silently for a moment — rose, came to her side, 


“GO TO MARTINIQUE!” 


75 


and laid one sunburnt band down on her 
silken-clad shoulder. 

“ Don’t, Alan — don’t 1 ” she said, shrinking 
away from his touch, as she had shrunk be- 
fore. “ I — did not mean any thing 1 ” 

“ Yes, you did mean something,” said Alan, 
in a Imy, determined voice. “ Margaret, look 
at me — I insist upon it ! You won’t ? Well, 
then, listen to me at least. You know some- 
thing about Ermine — and I charge you, for 
your soul’s sake, to tell it to me instantly ! ” 

“ Why should you think I know any thing 
about Ermine ? What is Ermine to me ? ” 
she asked, still without looking up. “ I — I 
never liked her. You know we never got on 
well together.” 

“ I won’t stop to ask whose fault that was,” 
he answered, in a tone that fairly awed her, it 
was so grave and stern. “But this I see 
plainly — you know the truth about Ermine’s 
marriage, and you must tell me at once what 
it is — what it was I ” 

“ Why do you come to me with such a de- 
mand ? ” she cried, drawing herself J^way from 
his hand. “ Why not go to Ermine’s mother 
or to — ^to her husband ? ” 

“ I have seen them both,” he answered, 
“and found them as false as false can be. 
Margaret, you are my last hone — here, at 
least. Tell me the truth, for God’s sake, and 
you will never regret it.” 

But, as he made the ad'uration, he saw 
how hopeless it was. His influence, and the 
influence of her own conscience, were both 
but weak and faint compared to the influ- 
ences which had ruled and fashioned her 
whole life, and which still held their sway, 
almost, if not quite, as strong as ever. Let her 
inclinations be what they would toward hon- 
esty and truth, Raymond still stood like a lion 
in her path. She might talk of hating him, 
but his spell had been laid Upon her for good 
or for ill, and she was now, as ever, his obedi- 
ent slave. 

“ I can tell you nothing.” she cried out, 
passionately. “ What is there to tell ? For 
Heaven’s sake, let me alone 1 What is Er- 
mine to me, and what is she to now ? I 
should think you would hate and despise her.” 

“ Then you know very little of her, and 
still less of me,” he answered. “ She is every 
thing to me now, and she will be every thing 
to me till I die. 1 know that there has been 
foul play in this marriage, because I know 
that she is the most tender and faithful of 


God’s creatures — utterly incapable of betray- 
ing any trust once given to her. There is no 
fear that I will not find out the truth sooner 
or later,” he went on ; “ for I have already 
devoted to the task every energy which I pos- 
sess ; but I am sure that you can help me, 
Margaret, and I trust that you will.” 

“No, I cannot help you,” said Margaret, 
“ except ” — and here she looked at him with 
suddenly sinning eyes — “ I can tell you this : 
if you want the truth — yo to Martinique ! ” 

Now, Alan had already made up his mind 
to go to Martinique, but the tone of this recom- 
mendation seemed suddenly to fill him with 
vague apprehensions. Most of us have known 
what such apprehensions are, most of us have 
known how an accent, a look, is sometimes 
more darkly suggestive of unknown terror than 
any spoken words could be. 

“ Margaret,” he said, quickly, “ for God’s 
sake tell me what you mean 1 Has any thing 
befallen Ermine ? What have they dared to 
do to her? Speak, if you have any mercy! 
Don’t leave me to torture myself with every 
black fear that love can suggest ! ” 

“ Ermine was very well when I saw her 
last,” said Margaret, a little sullenly. “ If 
any thing has befallen her, it has been since 
then.” 

“ And when did you see her last ? ” 

“I parted from them all in New York, in 
October. Mr. Saxton was anxious to come 
home, while they decided to remain there for 
the marriage.” 

“ You were not at the marriage? ” 

“No.” 

“ Then why do you advise me to go to Mar- 
tinique ? ” 

“ I thought you wanted the truth,” said 
Margaret, looking steadily and studiously away 
from him. 

“ I do want it, and ” (with an emphasis 
which she never forgot), “ by the God who made 
me, I will have it ! ” 

“ Well,” said she, with something of the 
same glance which he had noticed before in 
her usually languid odalisk eyes, “ it is to 
Martinique that you must go to look for it.” 

“ But you will not condemn me to days 
and weeks of suspense, when a word from your 
lips could end it ! ” said he, passionately, 
“You will not send me to Martinique to learn 
what you could tell me here and now ? ” 

“ I have nothing to tell you,” she an- 
swered. 


V6 


EBB-TIDE. 


“ But, Margaret — ” 

“ I know nothing ! ” she repeated, facing 
round upon him suddenly. “ How should I ? 
Do you think Raymond is likely to take me 
into his confidence ? Leave me alone ! I am 
sorry that I brought you here to torment me 
like this ! ” 

“ And I am sorry that I came,” he said. 
“You have, if possible, given an added weight 
to the anxiety which is already wellnigh crush- 
ing me.” 

He sat down again in the chair from which 
he had risen, and almost unconsciously his 
head sank into his hands. Strong man as he 
was — strong, indeed, in a higher sense than 
the mere physical — something like a deadly 
faintness came over him. If the shadow of 
mystery looked so black, who could say how 
much blacker the reality might prove ? 

As for Margaret, she sat still and looked at 
him ; sorry for him somewhat, but sorry for 
herself still more ; lacking courage to be silent, 
lacking yet more the courage to speak. After 
all, she was of a very commonplace type, by 
no means wholly bad, yet assuredly by no 
means wholly good. After a fashion, she was 
capable of friendship, gratitude, and love ; after 
a fashion also, of hatred, enmity, and revenge. 
But her love would never have been equal to a 
sacrifice, and her revenge would have always 
taken the form of petty malice. Of any thing 
positive her nature was literally incapable. 
She had not strength of character sufficient to 
proclaim her cognizance of a guilty scheme, 
and yet she had enough of a conscience to be 
restless under the weight of its knowledge. The 
medium course which she took at the present 
time was the temporizing course which moral 
cowards always take. She was not true to 
either side ; she did as much harm both ways 
as she was capable of doing, and then shrank 
back, hoping to go scot-free of the blame which 
she dreaded more even than the responsibility 
of crime. 

“ There is one thing I can do,” said Alan, 
raising his head at last, and speaking a little 
hoarsely. “ I can go to your husband. He, I 
presume, knows something of the matter as 
well as yourself, and the world mistakes him 
greatly if he is not an honest man. At least ” 
— not a little bitterness rang in the tone here 
— “ he will not be afraid of Raymond.” 

“ Are you mad ? ” cried Margaret, spring- 
ing forward with a pale, excited face, and 
catching his arm. “ Do you want to ruin me 


forever? If you do, go and put such suspicions 
as those into my husband’s head ! He w ill never 
forgive you, never, and he will never forgive 
we, either ! He is honest — as honest as the 
day — and he knows nothing which might not 
be published to the whole world. If — if he 
even suspected that I knew any thing which 
was wrong, I don’t believe he would ever speak 
to me again. 0 Alan, for Heaven’s sake, don’t 
— don’t go to him ! ” 

“ Then tell me the truth,” said Alan, seeing 
his advantage in her imploring face, and so in- 
tent upon his point that he did not stop to 
consider the means by which he hoped to 
gain it. 

For answer, Margaret burst into passionate 
tears. 

“ You are cruel ! you are cowardly ! ” she 
cried. “ I have done for you what no one else 
has done — I have shown you how to gain the 
truth — and, for thanks, you try by threats to 
force me into betraying secrets which are not 
mine, secrets which would be my ruin if I did 
betray them. Is this honorable ? — is this 
manly ? I am a weak woman, and you come 
and overawe me — why don’t you go to Ray- 
mond and make him tell you what you want to 
know ? ” 

“ I appealed to your honor and conscience,” 
said Alan. “ You know, as well as I do, that 
I might as well appeal to the honor and con- 
science of the devil as to those of my brother. 
It seems, however,” he went on, gloomily, “ that 
it was quite as useless to appeal to yours. I 
beg your pardon, however, for having forgotten 
myself so far as to utter what seemed like a 
threat. Since you assure me that your hus- 
band knows nothing of the matter, I shall not 
spealc to him. But I think it would be well 
for you to ask yourself whether the path you 
are following is likely to lead to happiness. 
You have confessed that you hold secrets which 
would be ruin if you betrayed them. Stop and 
consider whether they are most likely to be 
your ruin when told voluntarily by yourself, or 
when exposed by another ; as they will be if 
God gives me life to do it ? ” 

“ We do not know what may come b'''’-’’e 
the exposure,” said Margaret, evasively. “ . . , 

I, any of us, may be dead. Besides, if the 
matter is merely exposed, my husband will 
have no proof that I knew of it. You may 
believe me, Alan — I speak as^I might if I were 
on my death-bed — Iliad no share in ity 

She laid her hand on his in the energy of 


CHECKED AND CHECKMATED. 


77 


her last words, but he shook it off as though 
the fair, white flesh had borne the taint of lep- 
rosy. 

“ \\ hat do you call the share of aiding in a 
^ criminal concealment ? ” he asked, hoarsely. 
“ Don’t blind yourself, don’t think that your 
hands are clean because they were passive. 
Remember that you have had the opportunitv 
to clear your conscience, and to right those 
who are wronged, and you have refused it. 
Hereafter I shall not trouble you. But when 
the day of reckoning comes, I shall not spare 
you, the passive instrument, any more than I 
shall spare the active authors of the wrong. I 
will take care of my life, too — mindful always 
with whom I have to deal — and trusting that I 
may not gratify you in the death on which you 
build your hopes.” 

“ Hopes ! 0 Alan, how you wrong me, how 
bitterly you wrong me! Was I sorry to see 
you a little while ago ? ” 

“No,” said he, softening somewhat. “I 
believe you were not. But you have taken 
your first step on a dark road, Margaret, and 
who shall say where it will end ? ” 

“ It should end here and now, if I only 
dared,” said Margaret — “ if I only dared ! ” she 
repeated, wringing her hands. 

“ Dare for God’s sake, for the sake of your 
own conscience and your own soul ! ” said he, 
with passionate earnestness. “ While I was 
considered dead, you had an excuse for silence ; 
now I am alive, you have none 1 Trample your 
fear of Raymond under foot ! I will protect you 
against him I ” 

But she shrank back, her whole nature re- 
coiling from the path which he marked out. 
Potter, hesitate, temporize, if need be, but 
never face a direct issue, or tell a direct truth. 
That was her creed — the creed which every 
natural instinct seconded so strongly that per- 
haps she did not merit all the indignant wrath 
and contempt that Alan felt. Do we not pity 
the man whose cheek grows white in the face 
of a danger from which he dies, not one but a 
thousand deaths ? And should we not doubly 
pity the soul which shrinks from any and every 
ill ; save, indeed, that ill which is eternal ? 

“ I see that it is useless to urge you ; I see 
that you will not take courage and do the 
thing which is right,” said Alan, after a pause. 
“ Well, then, here we part — not to meet again 
until the truth has seen the light. Remember 
— if, indeed, we should not ever meet again, 
that you might have spared me much sulfering. 


which, instead, I shall go forth on my errand 
bearing with me. Now, good-by. Will you — 
can you — wish me God-speed ? ” 

“Yes — yes — with all my heart,” said she, 
speaking through tears. “ Believe me, Alan, I 
would tell you, if I could ; and, believe me, you 
will be very near the truth when you reach 
Martinique. But don’t make this good-by — 
pray, don’t 1 ” she went on, eagerly. “ Come 
back and dine with us — Mr. Saxton likes you 
so much, and will be so glad to see you.” 

“You are very kind,” he said; “but I 
should be ill company for any one just now — 
save the one whom I shall go to see,” he added, 
lowering his voice. 

“ And who is that one ? ” asked Margaret, 
a little curiously. 

“ My mother,” he answered, simply. 

“Your mother!” — the blue eyes sprang 
wide open, for, two years before, while Alan 
was far away, the reaper Death had come and 
garnered into his sheaf the fair, sweet lady for 
whom the young man chiefly toiled, leaving to 
him, when he returned, only a short mound of 
earth, and a memory which could never die — 
“ Alan — what do you mean ? ” 

“ Not that I have turned spiritualist,” said 
Alan, smiling a little sadly, “ or that I would 
call her back for an hour, if I could. But I 
always go to her grave when I come home. 
Somehow I think she may know it and like it.” 

“ You are as faithful as a dog,” said Mar- 
garet, touched unawares ; and is it not a fine 
irony on this human nature of ours that we can 
find no higher praise or better comparison for 
its fidelity than this ? 

So they parted, not in anger, nor yet with 
that cold challenge of opposing interest and 
aim which had been Alan’s farewell to Mrs. 
Erie. Their hands clasped, they bade each 
other good-by (which, being intei’preted, means 
“ God be with you ”), and if Alan had not heard 
from his cousin’s lips the truth for which he 
thirsted, he had at least heard that recom- 
mendation which accorded so well with his own 
desire — 

“ Go to Martinique ! ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

CHECKED AND CHECKMATED. 

The d'lsk of Christmas - Eve was dying 
away over the city roofs and spires, and the 


78 


EBB-TIDE. 


“night before Christmas” — eagerly watched, 
eagerly desired by how many childish eyes 
and hearts ! — had already fallen, when a sharp 
peal of the door-bell echoed through the Erie 
house. For a marvel, Regy and Louise chanced 
to be, not in the nursery with their bonne^ but 
in the sitting-room^ with their mother^ — the sit- 
ting-room brightened just now by the glow 
diffused from a vivid mass of coal which 
heaped the glittering grate, and looking rarely 
attractive with its bright pictures resting ease- 
fully in carved frames on the softly-tinted 
walls, its slender vases full of those fragrant 
flowers which the sweet South rarely refuses 
to her children, and one fair, cold statue stand- 
ing in motionless grace just within the bay- 
window, thrown into relief by the rich sweep 
of the maroon curtains, and “bathed in the 
bloom of the firelight ” which reached even 
this distant nook. 

“Now you must go, children,” said Mrs. 
Erie, as soon as she caught the sound. “ You 
know I only allowed yoti to stay on condition 
you gave me no trouble in case any one came 
in. You shall come down again after a while, 
but you must go now.” 

“ Mamma, you might let us stay ! ” said 
Regy, in a tone of expostulating persuasion. 
This young gentleman was lolling luxuriously 
in the depths of a capacious chair, and looked 
like a Louis-Quinze page in his blue-velvet 
suit, his delicate lace ruffles, and long, fair 
curls. “It’s sure to be nobody but Cousin 
Raymond, or Mr. Saxton — and it’s Christmas- 
Eve. There isn’t any good in dressing up to 
go and stay with Marie. Do, please, pretty 
mamma, let us stay ! ” 

“ Yes, mamma, please let us stay ! ” pleaded 
Louise, fired by the contagion of example, and 
mindful of her rose-colored silk and the broad 
sash which Marie’s Parisian fingers had tied 
so deftly. “We won’t say a word — will we, 
Regy ? ” 

“ Not unless somebody says something to 
us,” answered Regy, not quite ready to make 
such an unconditional covenant of silence. 

“ Reginald, take your sister and leave the 
room at once,” said Mrs. Erie, concisely. 
“Go up-stairs and stay with Marie until I 
send for you.” 

Master Reginald, somewhat crestfallen, tum- 
bled out of his cosy retreat and took Louise’s 
tiny, outstretched hand. They were both 
beautiful children, and they looked like a lit- 
tle fairy prince and princess, as they made 


their graceful courtesy (the courtesy taught 
to French children as soon as they walk), and 
left the room. Poor little elves ! Their rear- 
ing was a queer mixture of two essentially dif- 
ferent systems — the nursery, which is un- 
known in French life, being their habitual 
home ; while they were sedulously trained in 
that charming courtesy and docile obedience 
so remarkable in French children, and, for the 
lack of which, English (and, how much more 
American !) children are, in nine cases out of 
ten, veritable little boors and plague-spots in 
society. 

As the small pair ascended the staircase, 
with disconsolate faces, Robin opened the 
front-door and admitted into the hall a gentle- 
man who, only stopping a moment to throw 
off’ his overcoat, passed directly into the sit- 
ting-room. 

“ It’s nobody but Cousin Raymond ! ” said 
Louise, in an injured tone, pushing back her 
yellow curls and peering down through the 
balustrade which she was not tall enough to 
overlook. 

“ Mamma might as well have let us stay,” 
said Regy, also injured, and commanding a 
better view of matters and persons on* account 
of his more exalted stature. “ It’s a shame 
to send us up-stairs Christmas-Eve,” pursued 
the young gentleman. “ I say, Louise, don’t 
let’s go to Marie. She’s in her room, finishing 
a present for her sweetheart — he knows all 
about it, though, for I saw her working his 
name on it, and I told him so — and we can 
go and have a peep at the Christmas-tree 
without anybody knowing it ! ” 

“ Oh, but Regy, there isn’t any Christmas- 
tree yet,” said Louise, breathless and open- 
eyed. “You know Santa Claus never comes 
till midnight.” 

“ Then what is the nursery locked up for ? ” 
demanded Regy, with superb skepticism. “ You 
may believe in Santa Claus, Louise, because 
you are a very little girl ; but I know better. 
I saw Robin carry the tree into the nursery, 
and I saw Marie hanging the lights on it. She 
shut the door in my face, but I knew what 
she was doing. Now, if we go and peep 
through the key-hole, we can find out what we 
are going to have.” 

“ Can we ? ” said Louise, yielding to temp- 
tation with Eve-like readiness — violet eyes 
wide open, and coral lips apart — “then, 
Regy, let us go ! ” 

“ All right,” said Regy, “ come this wav ! * 


CHECKED AND CHECKMATED. 


'79 


And, hand-in-hand, the two young conspira- 
tors marched down the thickly-carpeted corri- 
dor to the nursery-door. There they remained, 
engaged in alternately applying one eye to the 
key-hole and being rewarded by a view of the 
extreme corner of the table on which the 
Christmas-tree was supposed to rest. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Erie was saying to Ray- 
mond, with an unusual degree of solicitude in 
her voice : 

“Do sit down and get warm — I am sure 
the weather must be horribly damp. You 
look pale. Are you sick ? Will you have a 
glass of wine ? ” 

“ No, thanks,” said he, sinking into the 
chair which Regy had vacated, and basking in 
the genial warmth of the fire very much as 
that young gentleman had done before him. 
“Do I look pale ? ” he went on, tossing back 
one or two dark locks that had fallen across 
his gleaming forehead. “ I am not at all sick 
—only, perhaps, a little tired.” 

“ I am afraid you have had a very trying 
day,” said she, looking at him closely, almost 
anxiously. 

“ Rather more trying than I anticipated 
this morning, certainly,” he answered, care- 
lessly. “ But I can take my ease to-night ” 
— he leaned back in the soft velvet depths, 
and looked as if he was taking it — “ with the 
consciousness of rest well earned — of difficul- 
ties and dangers successfully met and left be- 
hind.” 

Mrs. Erie started and glanced at him keen- 
ly— a shade of color, which was not cast by 
the fire, flickering into her alabaster cheek. 

“You don’t usually underrate difficulties 
or dangers,” she said ; “ else I should think 
that you were surely unaware what an enemy 
this day has raised up for you.” 

“ Do you think that an enemy who comes 
and throws his intentions like a challenge in 
your teeth, is much to be feared ? ” he asked, 
with a curl of his well-cut lips. 

“ Not to be feared, perhaps, but certainly 
not to be despised. That would be a great 
error — the greatest of the two.” 

“My friend, I never despise anybody,” 
said Raymond, more earnestly than before. 
“ I know the world too well for such folly. 
Nobody is too insignificant either to serve or 
to injure one’s interest. It should be a cardi- 
nal principle with every wise man never to 
make an enemy wantonly — never to offend the 
most humble, unless absolutely forced to do so. 


There are few better fables than that of the 
lion and the mouse.” 

“ Yet you make enemies without heed — 
apparently without care — when compelled to 
do so.” 

“ You say right — when compelled to do so 
If I have a great end in view, I don’t let a few 
individuals bar my way to it, but neither do 
I ever neglect any reasonable precautions 
against their malice. Of course, these precau- 
tions are rendered much more easy when my 
adversary is kind enough to show me his 
hand, and make me a confidant in his plans 
for my defeat.” 

“ Do you think that Alan has done this ? ” 

“ I received your note, written Just after he 
left. If he had conceived any plan more brill- 
iant than the one with which he favored you, he 
would certainly have returned to let you hear 
it.” 

“ Don’t be too sure of that, and don’t, 
let your contempt for him lead you into 
carelessness. If ever a man was in earnest, 
that man was in earnest to-day ! If ever a 
man was dangerous, that man was dangerous 
to-day! Don’t deceive yourself — don’t think 
that his bitterness will evaporate in idle threats. 
There was the look of a bloodhound in his 
eyes when he said he would track the matter 
down I ” 

“ Very likely ! ” said Raymond ; but, with 
all his superb carelessness, there was some- 
thing of a dangerous gleam under his own 
sweeping lashes. “ The bloodhound is an un- 
reasoning brute, who is simply useless when 
you throw him off the scent.” 

“ You will find it hard to throw this man 
off the scent.” 

He laughed — a low, slightly mocking laugh 
— which would have roused Alan to frenzy if 
he could have heard it. 

“ On the contrary, very easy — so easy that 
the fact may be regarded as accomplished.” 

“ How can that be possible ? ” 

“ How could it be other than possible when 
you consider how lacking in acuteness, how 
full only of brute strength and brute tenacity 
such a man is ? ” 

“ But — do you know that he is going to 
Martinique ? ” 

“ Have I not said that I received your 
note ? Of course, therefore, I know it.” 

“ And he will find — ” 

“ The island, and the mountains, and no 
doubt some old friends— these sailors know 


80 


EBB-TIDE. 


people everywhere — but not the person of 
whom ne is in search.” 

“ You talk enigmas,” said Mrs. Erie, with 
an impatient gesture. “ You forget that the 
risk is as much mine as yours. I must hear 
plainly what you have done.” 

“ You will hear in a moment,” he answered. 
“ Is not that my uncle’s step ? ” 

He turned his head as he spoke, and Mr. 
Erie — handsome, smiling, debonair as ever^ 
entered the room. If Raymond looked thinner 
and paler than he had done the preceding 
May, Mr. Erie, on the contrary, looked even 
better in health and spirits than on that by- 
gone evening when we saw him first. Con- 
trasting the two faces, almost any stranger 
would have regarded the nephew as the elder 
man of the two, and would certainly have 
been astonished to learn how the difference 
of age in reality existed. In truth, the slight, 
graceful, blond gentleman who came forward, 
did not look as if the vexations and cares of 
life had ever cost him many unquiet moments, 
or as if his mind was ever ruffled by any thing 
deeper than the tie of his cravat, or the ar- 
rangement of his golden curls. Regarding him 
abstractly, it might have proved hard for the 
apocryphal stranger aforesaid to realize that 
this was indeed the man of whom his very 
rivals admitted that no keener, shrewder, 
subtler intellect had ever come within the 
range of their experience — the man in whose 
hands Raymond, clever as he was, had been 
throughout life little more than a puppet, and 
with whom had originated every well-planned 
scheme which had gone to make or to secure 
their common fortune. 

As he passed on his way to the fire, he 
lightly brushed his wife’s forehead with his 
amber mustache, and gave Raymond a note of 
recognition. Then he took his stand on the 
rug, and surveyed the company. 

“ Have you been_ talking sentiment, that 
the gas is not lighted yet ? ” he asked, smiling. 
“ This firelight is very pretty, and makes my 
Clytie yonder look as if she were veritably 
alive ; but I have a weakness for bright light 
as well as for warm fires. Do you object, 
n-Camie ? ” This to his wife, as he took a 
prettily twisted and fringed allumette from a 
stand on the mantel. 

“ Not at all,” Mrs. Erie answered. “ Indeed, 
I should hawe had the gas lighted before this, 
only dusk deepened into night so rapidly that 
I forgot to ring for Robin ; and neither Ray- 


mond nor I have been doing any thing to feel 
the need of light.” 

“ You have been talking,” said Mr. Erie. 
“Do you call that not doing any thing? For 
one fact that you learn from words, you can 
learn twenty at least from the eyes and the 
expression of the face.” 

“But that is a sword which cuts both 
ways,” said Raymond. 

“ Ah,” said his uncle, with smiling benigni- 
ty, “ you mean that your own face might turn 
traitor and tell tales ? Bah ! my dear boy, not 
if you discipline it properly. Did Richelieu’s 
waxen mask ever betray him ? And why 
should we not all be Richelieus in private life ? 
There ! — is not that beautiful ? ” 

He lighted the allumette as he spoke, and 
held it to the cup of a bronze lily, from which 
instantly sprang a sheet of vivid white flame — 
filling the whole room with dazzling radiance, 
and banishing mercilessly the soft, rosy tint 
of the fire. Mrs. Erie and Raymond shaded 
their eyes from the sudden glare, but Mr. Erie 
regarded it steadily. “ There cannot be such 
a thing as too much light ! ” he said, emphati- 
cally ; yet in consideration of the optical weak- 
ness of his companions, he tempered the jet 
with a porcelain shade, that mellowed the white 
glow to a lustrous moonlight. Then he came 
back and resumed his place on the hearth-rug. 
After a moment’s silence, Raymond looked up 
and spoke. 

“ I am sure you would not have left the 
office unless some answer had come,” he said. 
“ What was it ? ” 

“Now that the gas is lighted, you can 
read for yourself,” said Mr. Erie, taking a 
folded paper from his pocket and handing it to 
him. 

The young man received it with something 
of a flush on his clear, dark cheek. When 
fortune or ruin is staked on a single chance, a 
single turn of the wheel or throw of the dice, 
does not the most immovable gambler betray 
the sharp tension of hope and despair by some 
such token as ims — some token so slight that 
only the keenest eye could detect it ? Raymond’s 
dark lashes swept his cheek as be glanced over 
the few lines written on a slip of paper con- 
taining the printed form of the telegraph 
company — but when they lifted, there was a 
bright, satisfied glow in the eyes thus un- 
veiled. 

“ You asked what I had done,” he said tc 
Mrs. Erie. “ Read that.” 


CHECKED AND CHECKMATED. 


81 


She took the paper eagerly from his out- 
stretched hand. It was a short telegram, 
dated in New York, at four o’clock that after- 
noon, and signed by a business agent of the 
Erie house, containing these words : 

“ Your message has been received and en- 
closed in a letter to Mrs. Erie’s address. The 
steamer leaves punctually at twelve, to-mor- 
row.” 

She read these lines twice over, before 
looking up. Then : 

“ I see — partly but not entirely,” she said. 
“ Tell me exactly what it means.” 

“ What it means,” repeated Raymond, 
rising like a man who flings off some great 
weight, and standing by his uncle’s side. “ It 
means that your ‘ bloodhound ’ is thrown off 
the scent — that he is checked and check- 
mated at his very first move.” 

“ But how ? ” (impatiently). 

“ BelVaime, you do injustice to your own 
quickness of perception,” said Mr. Erie, break- 
ing in here with a smile. “ Placed in Ray- 
mond’s position, your own instincts would 
have suggested, I am sure, exactly what Ray- 
mond has done. When Alan was kind enough 
to tell you that he was going to Martinique 
(or at least something equivalent to that), 
what was your first thought ? ” 

“ One of despair,” answered Mrs. Erie. 
“ I knew that he could go there as soon as 
Raymond could, and equally of course as soon 
as a letter. I confess I saw no mode of 
escape.” 

“And I confess that I shared the same 
feeling for a short time after he left me,” 
said Raymond. “ I did little more than curse 
the fate which failed to bring his letter, and 
thus left me unprepared for his appearance. 
But my uncle came in, and his first word was 
a ray of light in the darkness.” 

“I merely made a suggestion,” said Mr. 
Erie, modestly. “Your mind at once caught 
at it, and supplied every thing necessary for 
following it out. You had been shocked, and 
had not quite recovered from the effect of it — 
that was all. In a little while the same idea 
would have occurred to youi’self.” 

“ I am not so sure of that,” said Raymond, 
a little bluutly. “ Your suggestions, sir, are 
always somehow the germ of all that comes 
after. Well, at all events” (speaking to Mrs. 
Erie), “ my uncle asked me when the mail- 
steamer for the West Indies left New York — 
and, like a flash, I saw what to do ! I remem- 
6 


bered that the steamer left either to-day or to- 
morrow, giving, as you perceive, no time for a 
letter or for my own departure, but being as 
conveniently ready for a telegram as if it had 
been my private property. I telegraphed, 
therefore, to Forbes to the following effect” 
(he took a note-book from his pocket and 
read) : “ ‘ Write by the Martinique steamer 
to Mrs. Raymond Erie, care Delaroche & Co., 
St. Pierre, Martinique, giving this message : 
“ Do not wait for me, but leave the island at 
once for France, via any port on the continent 
of Europe. Do not delay a day, but write me 
from Paris. I will meet you there.” Enclose 
the present telegram as an authority, and an- 
swer at once, saying when steamer will leave.’ 
Now ” (closing the book and returning it to 
the breast-pocket of his coat), “ you have 
heard that the steamer leaves New York to- 
morrow at twelve o’clock. Could any thing, 
short of a balloon, get a man who is in Charles- 
ton now, there in time to leave in it ? ” 

“ When does the next steamer leave ? ” 

“ The next direct steamer does not leave 
for a month. He must therefore take some 
indirect steam-line, or else go in a sailing- 
vessel. In either case the bird will have flown 
before he reaches the island.” 

“ Are you sure that she will go ? ” 

“ Perfectly sure of that ” (very dryly). 

“ I cannot help doubting it. She is both 
perverse and obstinate.” 

“ Not with me,” said Raymond, dryly, 
again. “ She knows that when I am in earnest, 
I am not to be trifled with, and I am perfectly 
satisfied that she will obey that telegram as 
soon as she receives it.” 

“ But he ! Will not his suspicions be more 
than verified when he reaches Martinique and 
finds her gone ? ” 

“ Why should they be when he will have no 
proof of my having had any communication 
with her ? Not that it matters, however, if they 
are. She will be gone.” 

“ He can follow her to France ; and I think 
he will ! ” 

Raymond shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Let him ! Once in Paris, I defy him ! ” 

“ And then,” said Mr. Erie’s quiet, pleasant 
voice, “ you forget, my love, that in Paris he 
will find Madelon Lautrec ; and Madelon has 
wonderful dramatic capabilities undeveloped. 
I always told you that. Trust me, a little self- 
interest will develop them amazingly.” 

Mrs. Erie glanced from one to the other — 


82 


EBB-TIDE. 


from the clear, handsome, dark face, to the fair, 
handsorue, blond one — as if trying to take in 
the full significance of her husband’s words. 
Then the white lids fell over her eyes, and 
the white hands lying in her lap clasped them- 
selves together. 

“ I see ! ” she said. “ But it is a dangerous 
game.” 

“ What game worth the playing is not dan- 
gerous ? ” asked her husband, with something 
like an inflection of disdain in his well-modu- 
lated voice. “ By-the-by, I forgot to say that 
Major Dunwardiu will look in after tea for a 
game of whist. Do you think you would 
care to play if you were entirely certain of 
the result ? ” 

“ I am no coward,” said Mrs. Erie. “ But 
some risks seem to me too great to be run. 
I may be wrong, or I may be right, but 
I distrust Madelon; and I should never, un- 
der any circumstances, allow her to meet 
Alan.” 

“You forget,” said Mr. Erie, with un- 
moved quietness, “ where Madelon’s interest 
lies. She is in the same boat with ourselves, 
and no degree of sentiment is likely to induce 
her to throw herself out, only to be drowned.’’ 

“ Still it would be safest — ” 

“ Always to play a bold game,” interrupted 
he, putting out his hand and smoothing her 
hair with a caressing motion. “ Cowardness 
has -wrecked more fortunes than rashness ever 
did, rrCamie. If the chances were a thousand 
to one against success, I should still stake all 
on the one chance. But as it is — ” 

“ The chances are a thousand to one for 
success,” concluded Raymond, as he paused. 

“ Exactly,” said Mr. Erie, smiling. “ And 
after a time we may hope that our marine Don 
Quixote will fall in love with somebody else and 
go back to his legitimate business. Until then, 
our friend here ” (smiling at Raymond), “ will 
have to prosecute his training in a diplomatic 
point of view, for I agree with you ” (this to 
Mrs. Earle), “ in thinking that even brute cour- 
age, when once roused, may be dangerous. 
But muscle is no match for mind, in the long- 
run, and what Raymond has I am sure Ray- 
mond will keep.” 

“ To the last gasp ! ” said Raymond, be- 
tween his set teeth. 

His uncle patted him on the shoulder ap- 
provingly, then turned away, and, humming in 
a soft tone of voice the “ Ah ! die la mortef 
walked across the room toward the lovely 


statue in the bay-window ; before which he 
paused. 

“Women of flesh and blood,” said he, med- 
itatively, “ are sometimes sources of great an- 
noyance, but, to compensate for it, women in 
marble are certainly sources of rare enjoyment. 
Could any thing be more exquisite than this 
Clytie ? Ah, Raymond my dear boy, when 
will you learn to love art as art should be 
loved ! For myself,” he went on, casting a 
regretful sigh over his shoulder, “ I confess that 
I should have been the happiest man in the 
world if Fate had only been kind enough to 
have made me a sculptor ! ” 


CHAPTER V. 

AN EMPTY NEST. 

As all the world knows (or might know, if 
it felt any interest in the matter), communica- 
tion with the different islands of the West In- 
dies is not quite so open and direct as with 
Liverpool, Havre, or Bremen ; in consequence 
of which fact it followed that, despite a great 
deal of fiery impatience, Alan Erie verified his 
brother’s kind prediction, and was some time in 
reaching his destination. In truth, the month 
of January was wellnigh spent when a steamer 
from St. Thomas touched at St. Pierre, the 
commercial metropolis of Martinique, and 
landed several passengers. Of these passen- 
gers, Alan was one. Declining the kind in- 
vitation of a fellow-traveller (a creole planter 
who had taken a great fancy to him, and who 
pointed out his pleasant country-seat as they 
ran along the shore of the island), the young 
man made his way to an hotel, and thence, 
without loss of time, to the commission-house 
of Delaroche & Co., whom he remembered as 
the business agents of Colonel Vivieux, 

Arriving at the latter place, the mention of 
his name proved a passport which admitted 
him at once to the senior partner — a white- 
haired old Frenchman, courteous as all 
Frenchmen are, and sallow as nil inhabitants 
of the tropics soon become — who manifested 
a considerable degree of surprise at sight of 
him. 

“ Erie ! — Monsieur Erie ! ” said he, looking 
in almost amusing bewilderment at the tall, 
stately figure, and bronzed, handsome face be- 
fore him. “ I beg your pardon, Monsieur ; 1 
fancy there is some mistake ” (bowing as only 


AN EMPTY NEST. 


83 


a Frenchman can bow), “ I was told that Mon- 
sieiir Erie desired to see me.” 

“Erie is my name,” answered Alan, in 
French as good as he could muster. “ But it 
was my brother, Raymond Erie, perhaps whom 
you expected to see.” 

“ Yes, it was Monsieur Raymond Erie whom 
I expected to see,” said M. Delaroche. “ But ” 
(with another bow), “ you have the happiness 
to be his brother ” (“ A very precious happi- 
ness ! ” thought Alan, grimly). “ In that case, 
it affords me great pleasure to make your ac- 
quaintance, monsieur.” 

It was now Alan’s turn to bow, and to 
mutter something about and “ /io?j- 

neur ” under his mustache. He certainly had 
not come with any intention of exchanging 
compliments with Ermine’s business agent, but 
the graceful and unaffected courtesy of the 
Frenchman shamed the brusque directness with 
which his countrymen (learning a faithful 
lesson from those admirable models of breed- 
ing, their English forefathers ! ) thought and 
still think it necessary to treat every thing relat- 
ing to the ordinary affairs of life. Having ac- 
cepted a seat, he was silent for a few minutes 
— trying to collect his thoughts, which of late 
had acquired a habit of deserting him at the 
moment of need — and, since he did not pro- 
duce any thing like the letter which M. Dela- 
roche very likely expected, that gentleman 
spoke again. 

“ In what way, monsieur, can I have the 
honor of serving you ? ” 

Alan started. His truant thoughts came 
back with a flash, and he blushed like a school- 
boy as he said, quickly : 

“ Pardon me, I should have explained. I 
have often heard Mademoiselle St. Amand — 
that is, Madame Erie — speak of you, and, hav- 
ing just landed in Martinique, I thought I 
should save time if I came to you at once to 
inquire where I can soonest find her.” 

“ I am always happy to afford information 
to any friend of Madame Erie’s,” was the suave 
reply. “ But, in the present instance, I fear 
that you will be disappointed. The lady of 
whom you speak cannot be found anywhere 
very soon. She is not in Martinique.” 

“ Not in Martinique ! ” repeated Alan, pal- 
ing as suddenly as he had flushed the moment 
before. “ Good Heavens ! What do you mean ? 
Where is she, then ? ” 

The old Frenchman put up his eye-glass and 
regarded the young man for a moment with 


eyes which age had not robbed of their bright- 
ness or their keenness. Then, dropping the 
glass with a little click, he answered with un- 
diminished courtesy : 

“ Madame Erie is on the ocean at present, 
monsieur. She left the island last week.” 

“ Left the island ! ” 

If a chasm had yawned beneath Alan’s 
feet, he could scarcely have been more aston- 
ished. Left the island ! Ermine left the isl- 
and, while her husband was in Charleston I 
Thought has lightning-wings, as we all know, 
and, while he still gazed silently at M. Dela- 
roche, he was wondering if despair had driven 
her to this desperate step — if, like many an- 
other wretched woman, she had found too 
late the weight of the chain which she had as- 
sumed ? 

“ Left the island, monsieur ! ” he said, at 
last. “ Pardon me, but I scarcely think that 
can be possible. My brother is still in Charles- 
ton — unless ” (a sudden angry thought send- 
ing blood to his brow and fire to his eye) “ he 
has reached Martinique very recently.” 

“ Your brother has not returned to the 
island since he left it in December, monsieur,” 
answered M. Delaroche, quietly. 

“ And yet his wife has gone ! How did 
she leave ? — and when ? — and with whom ? ” 

Up went the eye-glass again. With all his 
courtesy, it was very evident that M. Dela- 
roche did not understand this excessive anx- 
iety and interest in — a brother-in-law. 

“ Madame Erie,” said he, a little formally, 
“ came over from Fort de France last week. 
She did ray wife and myself the honor of re- 
maining with us a few days — having business 
to transact before she took her departure. 
She was anxious, also, to procure a companion 
for the voyage. Fortunately, a lady — an es- 
timable widow of our acquaintance — was re- 
turning to France, and Madame Erie — ” 

“ To France ! ” said Alan, interrupting this 
history with merciless impetuosity. “ To 
France, monsieur! You must be mistaken! 
Surely Ermine — surely Madame Erie went to 
America, if she went anywhere ? ” 

“ Your pardon, monsieur, she went to 
France,” said M. Delaroche, with unchanged 
courtesy. “ I had the honor of attending to 
all her arrangements, and of bidding her adieu 
on the deck of the steamer Ville de Paris., 
which sailed for Marseilles last Wednesday.” 

He spoke with a positive certainty, which 
could not have failed in carrying conviction to 


84 


EBB-TIDE. 


the most obstinately incredulous, since we 
cannot well disbelieve that which a man tells 
|US he has seen with his own eyes, and heard 
with his own ears. To poor Alan — for whom 
the tide of fortune had, to all appearance, 
ebbed indeed — the realization of this second 
shock was terrible. Almost involuntarily, he 
put out his hand to grasp some steadying sup- 
port. Gone ! But why had she gone ? That 
was the question which sprung instantly to 
his mind, and which his lips uttered — a little 
hoarsely : 

“ This is strange news,” he said ; “ so 
strange, that I shall be glad if you can throw a 
little light upon the matter. What reason did 
my sister-in-law ” (he uttered the last words 
with a sort of savage emphasis) “ give for such 
a sudden and extraordinary departure ? ” 

“ Monsieur,” answered the old Frenchman, 
with an air so stately that it would not have 
misbecome a De Rohan, “ Madame Erie gave 
no reason for her departure, and it certainly 
never occurred to me to ask her for one.” 

“ Perhaps you think it singular that I 
should ask for one,” said Alan, amused in a 
certain unamused way by the quietness of this 
rebuke. “ But you must do me the justice to 
remember that the lady of whom we speak is 
my brother’s wife ” (why is it that we some- 
times find a fierce pleasure in stabbing our- 
selves with our own words, as Alan stabbed 
himself with these ?) ; “I have a right to feel 
some interest in her movements, therefore.” 

“ It is a right which I have not denied,” 
said M. Delaroche, with another bow.” 

After this, there was silence for several 
minutes. M. Delaroche coughed gently be- 
hind his hand, and tried not to look as if he 
expected his singular visitor to take his de- 
parture ; while the singular visitor tried vainly 
to think how he could best introduce several 
questions which might fairly be said to burn 
his tongue. He would quite as soon have 
thought of cutting his throat as of giving to 
this stranger even a hint concerning his story, 
yet — how else excuse, how else account for 
his interest in the affairs of his “ brother’s 
wife ? ” 

“ Monsieur,” said he at last, with a wistful 
accent in his voice, and wistful look in his 
eyes, “ you say that Madame Erie spent sev- 
eral days in your house before her departure. 
Yoii must therefore have seen her very con- 
stantly.” 

Again M. Delaroche bowed. Surely, by- 


the-by, a Frenchman’s backbone must be 
composed of much more pliant material than 
that of other people (people of the race of 
pokers, otherwise Anglo-Saxons, especially), 
else how would the constant demand for bows 
be so constantly honored as it is by that ur 
bane and charming people ? 

“ I had that honor, monsieur,” said he. 

“Perhaps, then,” said Alan — desperate 
now, and determined to fight his way to the 
truth through any opposition or misunder- 
standing — “ you will allow me to ask if she 
impressed you as a happy or a contented 
woman ? ” 

“ Monsieur ! ” 

The old Frenchman moved a little back- 
ward in his amazement. For a moment he 
thought of lunacy, and cast about in his mind 
for a means of rescue from this eccentric com- 
panion — but something sad as w^ell as sane in 
the clear sea-colored eyes regarding him, went 
far to reassure these fears. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ I confess that I do 
not comprehend you.” 

“ I am aware that my French is by no 
means very good,” said Alan, smiling faintly.* 

“ Still I think you might comprehend me — if 
you desired to do so. Understand this,” he 
went on, earnestly and a little proudly, “ I ask 
nothing which the strictest sense of honor 
could prevent granting. I came here hoping 
to see Madame Erie. I am an old* and deeply- 
attached friend, besides being” (a bitter ac- 
cent here) “ a newly-made relative. You tell 
me that she is gone, and that I have had my 
voyage for nothing. At least, then. I can ask 
a question which my own eyes would have ^ 
answered for me, if I had seen her — at least 
you can tell me if she seemed happy ? ” 

Said Raymond once, in speaking of his 
brother : “ The secret of Alan’s success in life 
is his moral force. That gives him an ascen- 
dency over men independent of any other 
power. He says to them, ‘ Do this,’ and they 
do it before they stop to consider that he had 
not the least right to issue such a command.” 
On the ground, then, of this moral force — a 
subtle but certainly a manifest weapon of ag- 
gression — we may account for the effect which 
this last speech had upon M. Delaroche. The 
eye-glass came into play again, but Alan’s 
honest face seconded his honest words so well 
that the old man could not distrust their evi- 
dence — ^full as he was of shrewd, worldly ex- 
perience. Now, although we are accustomed 


AN EMPTY NEST. 


85 


to think that worldly-wise people are also, of 
necessity, suspicious people, it remains a ques- 
tion whether the man who suspects every 
thing is not farther removed from trustworthy 
knowledge of his kind, than he who believes 
every thing. One thing is certain : if worldly 
wisdom indeed be worth the price which some 
of us are willing to pay for it, it should be- 
stow upon us the power of discriminating be- 
tween what is true and what is false, what is 
genuine and what is sham, by some infallible 
test. Real worldly wisdom does this \ spuri- 
ous worldly wisdom (the kind which flourishes 
before our eyes to such an aggravating extent) 
never achieves it. With the disciples of the 
latter school, “ to doubt ” is the only verb 
which they are able to conjugate. 

This, however, is a digression. Said M. 
Delaroche, kindly, but with a certain stiffness . 

“ If you had seen Madame Erie, monsieur, 
I think you would have been satisfied that she 
bears no outward signs of unhappiness. Of 
her inner life ” — with a French shrug — “ God 
and herself alone can tell.” 

“ Does she seem in good health ? ” asked 
Alan — thirsting as men in a desert thirst for 
water, for one glimpse of the face on which 
his companion’s eyes had rested so recently. 

“ In very good health, I think,” said M. 
Delaroche, looking a little puzzled. “ She is 
pale and slender, but I should say that both 
these facts were constitutional with her.” 

“Yes, she was always pale and slender,” 
said Alan, remembering, with a sharp pang, 
how often he had likened her graceful, stain- 
less beauty to a lily. 

There was another pause. This time M. 
Delaroche did not try not to look as if he ex- 
pected this peculiar visit and more peculiar 
catechism to end — and Alan saw the expecta- 
tion very plainly. He rose to his feet, there- 
fore. 

“ I have to thank you for a very courteous 
reception, monsieur,” said he, “and to express 
my regret at having troubled you. Before I 
leave Martinique, however, I should like to see 
and to enter the St. Amand house, of which I 
have heard Ermine speak very often. Is it 
possible to do so ? ” 

“Perfectly possible,” answered M. Dela- 
roche. “I shall be happy to furnish you 
with a letter of introduction to the persons 
left in charge of the establishment, and they 
will give you admittance at once.” 

“ It is in Fort de France, is it not ? ” 


“ In the neighborhood of Fort de France^ 
a most beautiful place, and I assure you, mon- 
sieur, the finest sugar-plantation on the island. 
Its yield during the past year has been enor- 
mous.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Alan, listlessly “ But it is 
only the house I desire to see.” 

In fact, he felt wrathful toward the unof- 
fending plantation, and would have been glad 
to invoke the green waves of the sea to cover 
its fertile acres. Would not Ermine still have 
been his but for those hogsheads of sugar, and 
the tempting sum which the accumulation of 
their proceeds had made during a long mi- 
nority ? ” 

After this, he and M. Delaroche parted 
very amicably. Having been questioned con- 
cerning the mode of reaching Fort de France, 
and having answered that the small passen- 
ger-steamer which plied between the two ports 
would not go down until the next morning, the 
latter yielded to a sudden attack of that mania 
of hospitality which afflicts everybody in these 

“ Summer isles of Eden, lying in dark-purple spheres 
of sea ” — 

and begged Alan to do himself and his wife 
the honor of dining with them that evening. 
This, however. Captain Erie declined, pleading 
the weariness of being just off a voyage — 
which would have been a sufflciently absurd 
excuse from any one, but was most particularly 
so from a sailor — and, with renewed compli- 
ments, and much more plaidr and honnmr^ on 
both sides, he and M. Delaroche parted and 
went their ways like two ships of different na- 
tions, which, having met in foreign seas, ex- 
change a few words of friendly greeting, and 
then pass on — to cross each other’s paths 
never again. 

Often as Alan had been within the tropic 
belt — often, indeed, as he had eruised in the 
enchanted waters of the Spanish Main, and 
lingered among the fairy islands which these 
waters encircle — he was almost tempted to 
think that he had never appreciated the full 
glory of tropical scenery until he stood on the 
deck of the steamer which ran from St. Pierre 
to Fort de France, and looked at the panorama 
of sea and shore spread before him. Was it 
because this was Ermine’s native island — the 
island of which she never spoke save in tones 
of tenderest affection — that it bore to his eyes 
such a radiant seeming ? This may have been 


86 


EBB-TIDE. 


80, since we know that love has power to gild 
all things connected with the beloved. Yet, 
apart from such association, any one blessed 
with that keen sense of the beautiful which is 
classed under the general and indefinite head 
of “ loving Nature,” might well have been en- 
raptured, for, in all the lovely tropical world, 
there is no lovelier spot than the fair isle of 
Martinique ! 

It is mountainous, as everybody knows 
(that is, everybody who has paid proper atten- 
tion to the study of geography), and when we 
put mountains, and sea, and tropical vegetation, 
and a tropical sky together, what more of 
beauty can we have, short of that Celestial 
Country of which we dream, and of which St, 
Bernard wrote ? Indeed, there are some of us 
who would freely sign away three hundred 
and sixty-five of life’s short, golden days to 
gaze at length upon the scene on which Alan 
gazed that morning. It was a glorious morn- 
ing — even for the tropics — and, through the 
sparkling purple air, the blue, misty hills in 
which the birthplace of the Empress Josephine 
is pointed out to strangers, seemed marvellous- 
ly close at hand, while the foreground of the 
coast, with its shining beach, its feathery 
palms, its fields of sugar-canp, and its pictu- 
resque country-houses, made a picture never to 
be forgotten. Of the nearer mountains, robed 
in the gorgeous robes of tropical verdure, there 
are no words to speak ! And then the sea, 
the divine, translucent sea ! Ah, it was a 
thing of which to dream ; stretching away in 
lustrous calm beneath a sky like a vault of 
sapphire, yet changing and shifting in opales- 
cent glory with every ray of light which the 
sun sent through the wide world of space to 
kiss its laughing waters! 

The quiet little town of Fort de France 
looked as quiet as tropical towns always look 
after sunrise and before sunset, when Alan 
reached it. The St. Amand residence — by 
name Lieu Desire — was a few miles distant, 
and, the climate rendering pedestrian exercise 
out of the question, it was some time before 
the young knight-errant could find any mode 
of conveyance to the shrine which he had 
made up his mind to visit. At last, however, 
his efibrts were crowned with success, and he 
set forth in the face of a heat which inhabit- 
ants of the temperate zone would find it hard to 
associate with the thought of January. But 
sunstroke, like hydrophobia, is fortunately un- 
known in the tropics, and the roads, like every 


thing else in the island, were admirable. Leav 
ing the town and the beach behind, Alan soon 
found himself in the open country. To one 
less absent in mind, less heavy in heart, the 
ride would have been like a glimpse of fairy- 
land, like something too bright and magical for 
reality ; the eye was charmed at every step by 
some new vista of enchantment, some new com- 
bination of trees and shrubs, while on every 
hand gorgeous creepers and parasites seemed 
running riot in very wantonness ; even the fields 
of sugar-cane and the red-tiled country-houses 
adding to the general impression of abounding 
beauty in form and color. The road, for 
some distance, at least, was of a quality that 
would have done credit to a colonial Baron 
Haussman. In fact, it was more of an avenue 
than a road, macadamized to perfect smooth- 
ness, and lined with the magnificent shade- 
trees of the tropics — gigantic cactuses and 
waving palms making an archway overhead 
like the groined roof of a cathedral. 

On approaching a spur of the hills, on a 
ridge of which Lieu Desire was situated, the 
path, however, grew less even, and the scenery 
changed greatly in character, becoming more 
bold, though scarcely less luxuriant, and unit- 
ing the grandeur of a mountain-region with 
the glowing verdure of the tropical belt, in a 
manner which defies all description. Sad and 
more sad as Alan felt, he could not but halt 
now and then to gaze in silent rapture on the 
marvellous wealth of loveliness around him. 
Grand hill-sides rose over him, crowned by 
plumy sentinels, and covered by broad succu- 
lent leaves and myriad flowers — fairy-like 
clefts and ravines opened on every side, giving 
glimpses and suggestions of beauty, such as 
no words could paint — now and then there 
was a distant view of the sea, then a flashing 
stream sent up a shower of silver spray as it 
tumbled over a precipice, or sang to itself with 
a sweet, rippling murmur, as it glided far away 
into the dim, aromatic recesses of the forest. 
Everywhere flaunted the wide leaves of the 
cactus, everywhere drooped the graceful foliage 
of the palm, everywhere shone the passionate- 
hned flowers — crimson and scarlet, golden and 
purple — of this land of the sun ; and every- 
where a sweet, spicy fragrance came, like the 
soft south wind, on “ subtle wings of balm,” to 
add to the intoxication of the senses. 

“ It is no wonder that my darling is an ar- 
tist ! ” thought Alan — forgetting how many are 
born in the midst of this lavish glory, for whom 


AN EMPTY NEST. 


87 


!t has no more meaning or expression than sun- 
light to the blind. 

When he reached Lieu Desir4, he found a 
graceful and airy country-house, on the usual 
tropical model — colonnades without number, 
perfect irregularity of outline, French windows 
opening on every side of the ground, and a 
court-yard containing a fountain, overhung by 
orange and lemon trees, of which he had often 
heard Ermine speak. He was admitted with- 
out difficulty — thanks to M. Delaroche’s letter 
— and as he roamed through the spacious, ele- 
gant rooms, and the wide, empty galleries, the 
very echo of his footsteps seemed to add to 
the mournfulness of his heart. How often in 
that brief, golden month of their happiness, 
had Ermine and himself talked of her tropical 
home, how often had she dwelt on every detail 
of its loveliness, and how often they had pict- 
ured the manner in which they would live 
here — together ! 

Now he stood on the threshold — a stranger 
and alone ! 

Well, it was bitter, but men’s hearts are 
tough, and Alan’s did not break, however 
much it might throb and ache. Oh, those 
areams of which they had spoken — dreams 
never to be made reality ! Oh, those 

“ Days oi summer-colored seas. 

Days of many melodies,” 

which they had lived in fancy, and would never 
live in fact! Could any sting of earth be 
sharper than their mockery now ? They 
seemed to haunt him, as he roamed to and fro, 
through the house and over the garden, drink- 
ing in the glorious prospect on which Ermine’s 
baby-eyes had opened first, and longing, poor 
fellow ! with heart-sick longing, to be some- 
where — beyond the blue sea and blue sky — at 
rest from this gnawing pain, 

“ Am I mad ? ” he thought, sitting down 
under the orange-tree of which he had heard 
Ermine speak most often — the one whose 
golden fruit brushed her casement — “ does 
every man love like this ? What is life to me 
now that she has gone out of it ? Nothing ! 
less than nothing 1 — save for its duties ; and 
they still remain to be fought out to the end. 
I should be glad to fling the useless burden 
down into the dust. I would fling it down at 
ner feet, God knows, if by such a meaus I 
could spare her one pang. Oh, my darling ! 
my darling 1 my fair, stainless, gentle lily 1 
what devil’s art has come between us and torn 


from you the one man in the world who woiild 
give his heart’s blood to serve you I ” 

Alas ! answer there was none. Serenely 
the fair sky looked down, serenely the fountain 
sent up its soft murmur and misty spray, se- 
renely the glossy leaves rustled overhead, and 
the cry of the passionate human love fell back 
on the passionate human heart like the unalter- 
able sentence of God. 

After a while he rose and went into the 
house. One more last glance around the dainty 
room which the cicerone (with whose services 
he had dispensed) told him was “ madame’s 
boudoir,” and then he would be ready to say 
good-by forever to this fair, tropical paradise, 
this sweet, empty nest from which the bird had 
flown. 

Round and round this room he wandered. 
It was so hard to go I Some aroma of her 
presence seemed to his fancy to linger here, and 
it was almost like the pain of farewell to leave 
it. Every thing in the room he touched with 
tender reverence, the tall Parian vases which 
he could fancy her hands filling with flowers, 
the keys of the piano over which her fingers 
had moved, the table on which her writing- 
desk and work-box had evidently stood, and 
the deep, luxurious chair in which he could 
almost see her slender figure nestling. On a 
couch near the chair, he sat down for a few 
minutes, and, as he did so, displaced a cushion 
evidently placed to support the head of a re- 
cumbent figure. Under the cushion lay a book 
which he took up — not because he cared in- 
trinsically for any book under the sun — but 
because Ermine’s hand had no doubt placed it 
there. Turning over the leaves absently, he 
saw that it was a novel, and that there were 
two marks between the pages — one of these 
was a faded flower which he gently kissed ; the 
other, a card on which was written a few words 
in pencil — brief yet in a measure significant, 
since but for them the description of this visit 
might have been consigned to the class of 

“All the fine hooka that have never been written, 
And all the bright things that have never been said.” 

Still absently, Alan glanced at these pen- 
cilled words ; but, as his eye fell on them, some- 
thing like light and life flashed into it. “ By 
Jove ! ” he said half aloud. Then he turned 
the bit of pasteboard several times over, read 
the inscription again, pondered a while, finally 
took out his pocket-book and carefully stored 
it away. After this he rose, and, with one last 


88 


EBB-TIDE. 


glance around the vacant shrine, went out with 
something almost approaching to alacrity. In 
his state, a straw depresses or raises that 
subtile mercury which we call the spirits ; 
and this straw had been beneficial in its ef- 
fect. 

Yet if anybody wonders what it was, there 
is no need to make a mystery of such a trifle 
— trifle, at least, to all appearance — for those 
few words in pencil merely jotted down a Paris 
address. To some people this would not have 
meant very much, but to Alan it meant a great 
deal, for he knew that this card had been mis- 
placed through carelessness or mistake, and 
that it was to this address in Paris that Er- 
mine must have gone. We have spoken of 
his dogged fidelity and tenacity of purpose be- 
fore ; it is almost useless, therefore, to say that 
this fruitless voyage to Martinique had not 
damped his resolution to see his lost love, and 
“ learn the truth from her own lips,” and that 
he was still determined to follow her to France, 
or, if need be, to Persia. But Finance is a large 
country, and has a considerable number of 
feminine inhabitants. A search through the 
country at large would have been rather vague 
— almost as vague as that of Japhet for his 
father — and therefore we see the importance 
of that forgotten card, left in the novel with 
which Madame Erie had whiled away some 
languid siesta. 

When Alan returned to Fort de France, the 
sun had gone down — sinking like a great ball 
of fire into the placid, azure ocean — and the 
world of Fort de France had begun to bestir 
itself, the first gentle movement of the land- 
breeze having ended the reign of heat and 
wakened that multitudinous insect choir which 
the katydid leads. Poor Nix had been left at 
the hotel (the heavy weight of hair which he 
carried making pedestrian exercise under a 
tropical sun impossible for him\ and woe- 
begone enough he looked as he lay with 
his enormous muzzle on his leonine paws, 
waiting and listening through manj long hours 
for his master’s return. When that master 
came, he rewarded his patience with the thing 
which Nix liked, next best to a swim — a walk. 
A military band was playing at the Place 
d'Armes^ and thither Alan bent his steps. It 
was necessary to lounge somewhere, and this 
was as good a place as any other — or better, 
perhaps. 

If he had been in another mood, he would 
have asked nothing brighter or more attractive 


than the scene which he found, for the Place 
d'Armes is situated on the very margin of the 
bay ; and, in the midst of the graceful, well- 
dressed throng who loitered to and fro, Alan 
took Nix down the beach and gave him his 
heart’s delight, a scamper in the rippling tide, 
Many bright glances followed the handsome 
stranger and his superb companion ; but even 
these fair countrywomen of Ermine and the 
Empress Josephine could not win a glance 
from those abstracted eyes, or quicken interest 
in the abstracted face. Yet the scene was 
very fair, and sometimes came back with pict- 
ure-like distinctness to his memory ; the rip- 
pling music of the tide on its smooth, pebbly 
beach, the martial strains of the band, the 
laughter of rosy lips, the sound of sweet voices, 
the lovely bay with its anchored ships, the dis- 
tant ocean in its twilight veil, the silver sickle 
of a new moon over the background of moun- 
tains, the heavy drooping verdure lightly 
swayed by the fragrant breath of the newly- 
risen land-breeze, and, above all, the pict- 
uresque assembly, the dark-eyed creole ladies, 
full of French grace, and clad in French toi- 
lets, the army and naval officers in their gleam- 
ing uniforms, the priests in cassocks, a sister 
of charity in her white head-dress followed by 
a merry crew of children, here and there a 
flower-girl, or vender of sherbet and ice-cream. 

It was a picture worth hanging in the gal- 
lery of memory, and, as Alan went back to his 
hotel, he could not be sorry that he would 
carry away one such scene to gild with its 
brightness the remembrance of Ermine’s birth- 
place. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A NEW CHAMPION. 

Of all things in the world, a day of early, 
opening spring is the most enticing. To make 
a slight parody on Dr. Johnson’s famous re- 
mark about Marathon and Iona, I do not envy 
the sentiments of the man, or woman, or child, 
or horse, or dog, or cat, or rabbit, or any thing 
that has eyes in its head and blood in its veins, 
that does not feel in every fibre the divine ex- 
altation of such a day! Who can willingly 
stay in-doors during its bright hours ? Who 
does not long to bathe in the tinted sunlight, to 
inhale the sweet fragrance of violets, to listen to 
the merry chirp of birds, to be as merry and 
chirp as loudly as they, perhaps, to fling care 


A NEW CHAMriON. 


89 


to the winds, to feel the magical softness of the 
purple air on cheek and brow, to watch the 
opening blossoms and bursting buds, to pull 
■"iny, feathery leaves off the trees, and, in short, 
to be thoroughly pastoral and happy and 
foolish for once in life ? And if people feel 
this everywhere, how much more do they feel 
it in Paris — Paris, where the only question is, 
what place of sweet idleness to choose ! 

The gay sunshine of such a day was gilding 
with a flood of glory the palaces and gardens, 
the arches and columns, the boulevards and 
bridges of that fairest of ail fair cities, when a 
lady, dressed evidently for promenade or driv- 
ing, stood 4t the window of a pleasant saloon 
overlooking a handsome, busy Paris street. 
The lady was young, tall, slender, and dark- 
eyed ; the saloon was imposing and luxurious, 
full of long mirrors, and cabinets, and vases, 
while the hangings and furniture were all of 
white-and-gold. It seemed a fitting shrine for 
the stately creature who moved slowly to one 
of the mirrors and stood there knotting into 
negligent grace the lace strings of her bonnet, 
while the silvery tint of her costume seemed in 
harmony with the tender budding verdure and 
the soft blue sky outside. She had arranged 
the strings to her satisfaction, and was begin- 
ing to draw on her gloves, when a sudden peal 
of the door-bell made her start. She frowned 
a little and stood listening with her head 
slightly bent, while something of an altercation 
went on between the visitor who rang the bell 
and the servant who answered it. Finally the 
latter brought in a card. 

“ Would madame look at this ? ” he asked, 
in a somewhat injured tone. The gentleman 
was very persistent. He insisted upon seeing 
madame, and would take no denial. He was 
the same gentleman who had called twice the 
day before, and to whom, on both occasions, 
madame had been denied. 

Madame looked at the card and frowned 
again. 

“ Did you tell him ‘ Not at home ? ’ ” she 
asked. 

“ I told him so several times, madame.” 

“ And what did he say ? ” 

“ He said he would wait at the porte-cochhe 
till madame came in, or — went out.” 

At this, madame stamped her pretty 
foot. 

“ How dare he be so insolent? ” she cried. 
“ I will not submit to it !>I will not be perse- 
cuted in this manner, or be blockaded at my 


own door ! I will call in the police first — you 
may tell him so, Jean.” 

“ Oui, madame,” said Jean, quietly, and 
walked toward the door. 

But cooler reflection prevailed in madame’s 
mind before he had more than half crossed the 
polished floor. She called him back, and then 
asked quickly — 

“ Did he say any thing else ? ” 

“ He asked to see Madame Villarot,” an- 
swered Jean, still quietly, “ but I preferred to 
speak to madame first.” 

“ Then why did you not speak to me, 
stupid ? ” demanded madame, impatiently. 
“ That is just the thing ! He shall see Madame 
Villarot. Why did I not think of that sooner ? 
Admit him at once,” she went on, “ while I go 
and tell my aunt.” 

As Jean walked out of the saloon by one 
door, the lady left it by another. It was as 
close a thing as possible — as close as we some- 
times see in dramatic situations on the stage — 
for the latter door had scarcely closed on her 
silvery draperies, when the former door 
opened as Jean admitted the persistent visi- 
tor. 

This visitor, it is scarcely necessary to say, 
was the tall, bronzed gentleman whom we saw 
last in the Place d’Armes of distant Fort de 
France — the gentleman who had found the ad- 
dress of these charming apartments au premier^ 
under a sofa-cushion in the boudoir of Lieu 
Desire — who looked a trifle paler than he had 
done in the tropics, but who sat down quietly 
in the midst of these Parisian splendors to wait 
for Madame Villarot. 

After a short interval — during which he 
heard a band playing away in the garden of 
the Tuileries near by — the door of the saloon 
again opened and admitted a slender, elegant 
woman of middle age, dressed exquisitely in 
half-mourning, with something about her clear 
features and dark eyes which, reminding him 
of both Ermine and Madelon, proved that, 
whatever she was now called, she had been 
born St. Amand. 

Alan rose to his feet, and, as he looked at 
the pale, high-bred face before him, something 
like reassurance crept into his heart. There 
are some people who seem to carry in their 
mere presence the most eloquent assertion 
of that grand old motto — Noblesse oblige. Of 
these, Madame Villarot was one. No man 
could see her and believe for a moment that 
she could ever be made an active or passive 


90 


EBB-TIDE. 


agent in any deception, far less in any fraud. 
Only to look at her was sufficient conviction 
that her white, blue- veined, aristocratic hands 
were not less stainless in reality than in seem- 
ing. 

“ With such a woman as this,” thought 
Alan, “ my way will be clear.” 

“ Madame,” he began, respectfully, “ I 
have been bold enough to beg the favor of an 
interview with yourself because I have been 
denied all access to your niece, Madame Erie. 
It is her whom I desire to see; but, failing 
this, I should like to know her reason for de- 
clining to hold any communication with me.” 

“ As far as I can judge, monsieur,” said the 
lady, in pure Parisian French, which made 
Alan exceedingly conscious of his own short- 
comings in the matter of language, “ my niece 
is acting very prudently and with my entire 
approbation in declining to see you. Will 
you allow me to inquire in turn what possible 
reason you can have for persecuting her as 
you have done within the last two days ? ” 

“ Persecuting her ! ” repeated Alan, while 
a sudden flush dyed his sunburnt face. “ Par- 
don me, madame, but I cannot think that Er- 
mine — that Madame Erie regards my desire to 
see her in the light of persecution ! If so — ” 

He stopped suddenly, and swallowed his 
indignant words with a gulp. 

“ If so,” said Madame Villarot, seeing her 
advantage and following it up with a very gra- 
cious smile, “ I am sure that monsieur is too 
much of a gentleman to pain or distress any 
one — especially a woman whom he may have 
loved.” 

“ A woman whom I do love, madame,” cor- 
rected monsieur, coolly, “ and whom I have 
followed across the Atlantic that I may learn 
from her own lips the truth concerning her 
marriage. Have you heard my story, ma- 
dame ? ” he went on, “ or shall I weary you if I 
repeat it ? Otherwise my conduct may seem 
to you to need an excuse.” 

“ I have heard the outline of your story, 
monsieur,” answered Madame Villarot, kindly, 
“ and I willingly grant to you all the excuse 
which you may desire to claim. But do you 
not see that you are too late ? The marriage- 
knot, once tied, cannot be untied, and what 
good, therefore, could ensue from explanation 
of what is past ? Harm, rather, might — nay, 
would — follow if you met Enriiue. She herself 
shrinks from the meeting. Can you not realize 
fthis feeling, and generously respect it ? Sure- 


ly, if you love her, you must desire to serve 
her.” 

“ God knows that I desire nothing else,” 
said Alan, gravely. 

“ Then, monsieur,” said the lady, with her 
dark, eloquent eyes fastened full on him, “ as 
a gentleman and as a Christian, leave her. I, 
who have a woman’s heart to feel and to sym- 
pathize with you — I, who admire and respect 
your rare fidelity — I bid you do this in that 
holy Name which you have invoked J If you 
love her, you are the last man in the world 
who should linger by her side, or look into 
her eyes ! You are the last man in the world 
who should bring dissension between herself 
and the man to whom she gave her hand be- 
fore God’s holy altar ! ” 

“ She was mine before she was his ! ” said 
Alan, fiercely. “ She has been stolen from 
me ! Madame, madame, do not try to make 
me believe that I have not a right to say to 
her what I will ! ” 

“ It is not necessary for me to try to make 
you believe it,” said Madame Villarot, still 
kindly, still gently ; “ your own conscience, 
— your own sense of right and wrong — speak 
to you with more authority than my feeble 
voice. Monsieur, I pity you from my soul, 
for I see the fight which you will have to 
wage — and it is a fight in which there can be 
no compromise. Now, listen to me — you ac- 
knowledge that you love my niece ? ” 

“Yes,” said Alan, bitterly, “one does not 
unlearn the lesson of a lifetime in a few 
months.” 

“You acknowledge also that she is mar- 
ried — why or how, does not matter. It is 
enough that, being married, she is irrevocably 
lost to you.” 

“ Yes,” said he, between his set teeth. “ I 
acknowledge that. She is irrevocably lost to 
me.” 

“ Then,” said the lady, “ realizing these 
things, why do you still wish to see her? 
What end can you possibly desire to gain by 
distracting her mind and harrowing her heart 
by a last interview — which,” she added, with 
keen, worldly wisdom, “ if once granted, would 
not be the last.” 

“ I desire one thing, niadame, which you 
have not taken into account,” said he, almost 
sternly — “that is, revenge! You are a wom- 
an — a good one, I am sure,” he added, ear- 
nestly — “ therefore, ji|it is impossible for you to 
I imagine the manner in which a man’s thoughts 


A NEW CHAMPION. 


91 


turn instinctively to that resource, when he 
has been injured beyond hope of cure. I 
know that there has been some black villany 
in this work — and I will yet lay my hand on 
it. But Ermine alone can enable me to do 
this.” 

“ And what Avould you think of Ermine if 
she gave you the information you desire, 
if, in so doing, she turned against the man 
who, whether for good or for evil, is her hus- 
band ? ” 

“ You don’t see — you don’t understand — ” 
he broke out, vehemently. 

But a white, slender hand, raised for a mo- 
ment, stayed the words on his lips. 

“ Believe me, I understand perfectly,” said 
Madame Villarot, gravely. “ Ah, yours is no 
new case. We all agree that moral laws are 
very useful things as long as they do not bind 
our own inclinations. When they do this, 
however, we all think that we have some ex- 
ceptionally good reason for bursting them 
asunder. Monsieur, I am sure that you are 
honorable, and I think that you will prove 
reasonable — therefore, I speak to you plainly. 
I entered this room inclined in a measure to 
your side — thinking that Ermine might con- 
sent to see you — once at least. I recognize 
now that she was wiser than I. She distrusts 
herself — no doubt with good cause. She dis- 
trusts you — no doubt with better cause yet. 
The interview, she says, would be acutely pain- 
ful to her. I see now that it would be worse 
than painful — it would be dangerous. Such 
passions as yours are not made for playthings. 
You must go ! Being a gentleman, being a 
Christian, you will go ! And, if you are wise, 
you will put land and sea between yourself 
and this woman whom you love, and who is 
now separated from you — irrevocably.” 

We have all of us heard of personal 
maemetism, and once or twice in life we mav 
have met it, as Alan met it now in this fair, 
graceful Frenchwoman. Whether the power 
was in herself or in the words which she ut- 
tered, it is hard to say. But power of a cer- 
tain subtle kind existed in every glance of her 
eye, every accent of her voice — power which 
it was impossible even for his obstinate will to 
resist. Like wax exposed to the white heat 
of fire, his fierce passion and steadfast resolve 
seemed to melt away before the simple words 
of this stranger — this woman whom half an 
hour before he had never seen. When she laid 
her delicate, thorough-bred hand down upon his. 


in the energy of her last word, he felt as if the 
blackness of despair were gathering round him 
— as if, indeed, she left him no alternative but 
to go. 

“ Madame,” said he, after a pause, “ you 
are right — I am wrong. I have acted and 
wished to act like a mad fool. God forgive 
me if, in trying to serve Ermine, I have only 
pained and injured her ! I see that I must re- 
sign the hope of avenging her wrongs, since 
the blow which struck others would, in a 
measure, recoil upon herself. But, madame — ” 
and Madame Villarot never forgot the passion- 
ate eyes which met her own here — “ when a 
man is going forth on a long journey, never to 
return, can you deny him one farewell ? Can 
it injure any one if he looks his last into the 
eyes which have been the sweetest eyes in the 
world to him for many years, or if he clasps 
the hand which has lain in his a thousand 
times, and was tO have been his own? I 
promise you that I will say nothing which the 
whole world might not hear. Only let me bid 
adieu ” (if he had been speaking his native 
tongue, he would have said “ good-by,” but 
there is no equivalent for that sweet word in 
the French language) “ to the one light of my 
life — and go.” 

Ah, love makes poets as well as fools of us 
all ! There was not in the world — in that fine, 
English-speaking world which has set its surly 
face against “ sentiment ” — a more practical 
person in the ordinary affairs of life, than Alan 
Erie. But his love for Ermine had been, in- 
deed, and in a different sense from that in 
which Byron meant the expression, “of his 
life a thing apart.” This life had been like a 
rough cloth, strong in fibre and coarse in 
grain, but through which there ran a single 
golden thread — the poetry of a love which the 
rare, sweet nature of its object exalted above 
the ordinary passion which bears that much 
abused name. So, when he made an appeal to 
say good-by to that love forever, the love it- 
self loosed his tongue, and inspired the words 
whose unconscious eloquence Madame Villarot 
long remembered. “Ah!” she would often 
say in speaking of him, “ believe me, there was 
a chevalier of Nature’s own making — a gener- 
ous nature, a faithful heart, a love such as we 
do not discover in the fine gentlemen of our 
nineteenth century. They fritter away their 
hearts (or whatever is supposed to do duty 
'for their hearts) on a hundred different follies 
and fancies, until a feeble liking is all that 


92 


EBB-TIDE. 


they have left to give to any one ; but that 
man — there was passion which deserved the 
name in him / ” 

She did not say this to the “ chevalier ” in 
question, though — she only shook her head 
and gazed at him with kind, steadfast eyes. 

“ Be brave ! ” she said. “ Do not ask it. 
Go without it. You do not realize — you can’t 
imagine — how much harder it would make the 
separation. You would transform a wound 
which is closing — I do not say healing — into 
one which would be open and gaping. No, 
my friend, no ! Be generous — be courageous 
—go ! ” 

“ I must see her — I will see her ! ” said he, 
hoarsely. “ You shall not keep her from me ! 
My God ! madame, have you no heart, that 
you cannot even grant me this ? ” 

“ It is because I have a heart that I refuse 
it,” answered she, gently. “ Monsieur, do you 
know what you ask! When you do know, 
you will thank me for standing between you 
and your own desire. Once more I warn you 
that this passion of yours is no plaything. On 
the contrary, it is a mine of gunpowder which 
one spark will ignite — and I know enough of 
human nature to be sure that one sight of Er- 
mine (whom you acknowledge you have not 
seen for nine months) would prove such a 
spark. Therefore, no such meeting shall take 
place within my doors, and I am sure you are 
too chivalrous a gentleman to meet my niece 
elsewhere.” 

“ 0 madame,” said he, bitterly, “ do not 
trust to my chivalry in such a matter as this. 
I would set aside any thing — break through 
any law — to reach Ermine. She is mine ! I 
have a right to meet her when and where I 
will ! ” 

“ Not against her own will,” said Madame 
Villarot, gravely. “ Your chivalry will grant 
that much, I am sure — especially when I pledge 
my word as a Christian, and my honor as a 
Frenchwoman, that the thing of all others which 
Ermine is most anxious to avoid is an inter- 
view with yourself. The feai- of meeting you 
has kept her a prisoner in the house ever 
since you have been in Paris. Now, will you 
force this which she dreads upon her ? Will 
you distract her mind, which has settled itself 
to accept the inevitable? Will you inflict 
pain upon yourself, and worse pain upon her, 
merely to gratify your own desire ? Monsieur, 
I think not.” 

Again she conquered. He looked at her 


for a moment with a pale, blank face — then 
quietly rose to his feet. 

“ Madame,” said he, simply, “ you have 
left me nothing to say — but farewell. I shall 
leave your doors a little wiser than when I en- 
tered them, and I shall leave Paris to-night. 
Your niece, therefore, need no longer be a 
prisoner on my account. If you tell her any 
thing from me let it simply be ‘ God bless her 1 ’ 
For yourself, I shall never forget the generous 
kindness and sympathy with which you have 
received and listened to me. The reward, 
your own heart must give you. Adieu.” 

She held out her hand, and, as if he had 
been bom and bred in France, he bent and 
kissed it. 

“ Monsieur,” said she, gently, “ take with 
you not my pity, but my admiration. Out of 
such stuff as you heroes are made 1 ” 

They were brave, gracious words, and, as he 
passed out, they went with him like a cordial. 
But for them, his strength might have failed 
when the door closed behind him, and he felt 
that the last strand of hope had slipped from 
his grasp. 

Meanwhile, it is hard to say what Madame 
Villarot would have thought if she had only 
seen, in its true colors, the cause in which she 
had fought and triumphed. Pure and noble 
lady that she was, we may be sure that it 
would have gone bitterly hard with her to 
know that her efforts had turned the scale of 
victory for wrong against right, for treachery 
against truth. Yet she might have consoled 
herself by the reflection that she had battled 
not for an individual merely, but for an ab- 
stract principle — and that principles never 
change. Yet it was at least a strange freak 
of circumstance which thus arrayed such a 
champion on such a side, and lent such stain- 
less weapons to such a warfare. But then it 
not unseldom happens “ in this riddling world ” 
that weapons stainless as hers are unsheathed 
to do battle for some cause which cloaks the 
malicious form of a demon under the stolen 
raiment of an angel of God ! 

When Madame Villarot went to the cham- 
ber of her niece, she found her sitting by an 
open window, with the quivering sunlight 
pouring down upon her idly-clasped hands, 
her shining dress, her rich, dark hair (the 
bonnet had been laid aside), and her white, 
sculptured face. The immobility of the attitude 
struck the elder woman with pain, as she 
entered the room — and, crossing the floor, she 


DRAMATIC CAPABILITIES. 


93 


fcaid a few words — purposely tender — hoping 
ihat tears might break through this rigid calm. 
But no tears came. Gravely, quietly, without a 
movement of feature, or of glance, the girl heard 
the circumstantial account of the interview — 
and, when it was ended, she said in a low, even 
voice : 

“ Thank you, ma tarde^ for your great 
goodness and kindness — to him as well as to 
me. Now, if you will not think me ungrateful, 
will you add one favor to the rest ? Will 
you leave me, and see that I am not disturbed 
until dinner ? ” 

“But, my child, you were going to drive 
with me,” said Madame Villarot, kindly. “ Do 
you not think it woula do you more good than 
staying here alone ? ” 

“ Not if you will excuse me. My head 
aches, and I should like to be alone.” 

“ At least let Clemence stay with you. 
You may need something.” 

“ I prefer to be alone,” was the answer. 
Then with passionately uplifted eyes, “Ah, 
dear aunt, grant me to-day ! To-morrow I 
will be all you wish ! ” 

“ My child, do as you please — no one shall 
disturb you,” said Madame Villarot, gently. 

Then she bent down, kissed the white brow, 
and gently rustled from the room. 

“ After all, the child is wise,” she thought 
— “ wise to take it in this way. Perhaps it is 
best to let her fight it out alone. She has a 
brave heart, and the holy angels are near to 
help her.” 

Ah, sweet lady, near indeed — ever near — 
but bearing no part save that of sad spectators 
in such a conflict as this. 

Soon afterward, Madame Villarot drove 
away from the porte-cochere ; and soon again, 
after that, a daintily-dressed lady, wearing a 
heavy veil, passed out of the same door, and 
took her away along the Rue Royale, across 
the Place de la Concorde, and into the open 
gates of the Tuileries, where a tall man and a 
large dog had entered not long before. 


CHAPTER VII. 

DRAMATIC CAPABILITIES. 

The Tuileries ! Ah, what a chord of bitter 
grief and more bitter rage — to which there 
has come as yet no comfort — that name 
awakens Alas for the beautiful palace, and 


its beautiful gardens ! A’ as, yet more, for 
that fair and noble France whose own un- 
grateful children have proved her bitterest 
and direst enemies ! On that by-gone day of 
which I write, however, the bright spring sun- 
shine still slept on the stately column of the 
Place Vendome, the imperial city still wore 
her crown of peerless beauty, the golden grain 
and the purple vintage still ripened peacefully 
on the broad plains of Normandy and the 
sunny hills of Provence, the noble fortresses 
of France still echoed the reveille of French 
drums, and the royal fa9ade of the Tuileries 
still crowned its beautiful terraces, while its 
many windows gave back the sunshine in a 
blaze of glory, like an illumination over some 
great victory where French heroism and dar- 
ing had again received their baptism of blood ! 
In the garden, with its fountains, and statues, 
and green arcades, soldiers still paced, military 
music played, the glittering crowd moved* to 
and fro ; children, followed by white-capped 
nurses, scampered along the paths ; people sat 
on the benches under the budding chestnut- 
trees, reading or gossipping, while numberless 
other people strolled past; birds twittered in 
the boughs, early spring flowers gleamed along 
the borders, and the fragrance of bursting buds 
seemed to fill the air with a delicious sense of 
Nature’s awakening vitality. 

Fresh as Alan was from the enchanted 
tropical world, the beauty of the scene pleased 
and soothed him. Followed by Nix, whom he 
had not admitted to Madame Villarot’s saloon, 
he strolled down one path after another, past 
merry groups of children playing hide-and-seek 
about the statues, past old gentlemen and 
young gentlemen, past grand ladies, and ladies 
who were not grand, finally paused for a mo- 
ment near the music, then rose and began to 
stroll away again toward the Rue de Rivoli. 
But he had not taken many steps in this direc- 
tion, when a lady rose from a bench under the 
soft, flickering shade, and, lifting her v<!il with 
one hand, held out the other. 

For an instant, Alan recoiled as if he had 
been shot. Ermine was so entirely in his 
thoughts, that, for the space of a second, he 
almost thought she was before his sight — the 
graceful figure, the clear, white complexion, 
the delicate features, the large, dark eyes, 
making an ensemble strikingly like her own. 
Then he recognized Madelon Lautrec. 

“ Madelon ! ” said he, eagerly, so surprised 
and delighted to see her that he made one 


94 


EBB-TIDE. 


quick step forward and clasped the extended 
hand in both his own — “what extraordinary 
good fortune that I should meet you — other- 
wise I might have left Paris without knowing 
that you were here ! What are you doing ? — 
where did you come from ? ” 

“ Have I not a right to see the world as 
well as my betters ? ” asked she, looking up at 
him, with the bright, mocking smile which he 
well remembei’ed, and which carried him back 
to the familiar scenes in Charleston, as if by a 
flash. “J/a /o2, M. le Capitaine, railroads 
from every part of the world run into Paris, 
and for the rest — even a penniless maiden 
may enjoy a bench in the gardens of the 
Tuileries for nothing ! ” 

“ May she ? ” said he, smiling a little ; 
“ but then she must expect to share it, if an 
old friend comes by. You will sit down again, 
won’t you ? I have so much to say to you.” 

“ Yes, I will sit down again,” answered 
she, lowering her veil, “but not just here. 
You must remember that we are not in 
Charleston now. My aunt would be shocked 
if she knew that I was in the open and fla- 
grant act of talking with a man — absolutely a 
man — without any chaperone near by to over- 
look my deportment. Under these circum- 
stances, I don’t care to meet any of our ac- 
quaintances, and therefore I should prefer 
some more secluded part of the garden.” 

“We can easily find one,” said he. And, 
side by side, they walked away, leaving the 
music and the chief part of the glittering 
throng behind them. 

In Paris nobody is observed, unless it be a 
pretty woman quite alone, and they soon found 
the nook of which they were in search, a pleasant 
seat just large enough for two, under a spread- 
ing horse-chestnut- tree, with a fountain play- 
ing not far off, and a group of statuary in front. 
As they sat down, Madelon felt sufficiently 
secure to take off her veil, and Alan could not 
forbear saying : 

“You are handsomer than ever, Madelon^ 
if that be possible.” 

“Am I?” asked she, with bright, half- 
lifted eyes. “ I am so glad to hear it. I was 
always vain, you know, and never made a pre- 
tence of concealing my vanity, as most women 
do. I am proud of my beaux yeux^ and I mean 
to make them do me good service in this gay 
world of Paris. Ah, Alan,” with a sigh, not of 
pain but of deep enjoyment, “ now I know what 
it IS to live. Before this, I have merely existed.” 


“ When did you come here ? ” asked he, 
absently, pulling Nix’s silken ears as he spoke. 

“About a month ago,” answered she, then 
correcting herself with a blush, as he quickly 
looked up, “ How foolish I am ! You mean, of 
course, when did I come to France. That was 
last November. But I came to Paris a month 
ago, to meet Ermine, who wrote that she 
would be here at that time.” 

“Are you staying with Ermine ? ” asked 
he, looking at her in some surprise. 

“ Did you not know it ? ” said she, re- 
turning the gaze with eyes which did not 
blench or turn away. “ Did not Madame Vil- 
larot tell you ? ” 

“ No, she did not tell me. Why did you 
not come in to see me ? It would have been 
only friendly to do so, and we were always 
good friends, were we not ? ” 

“ In America — yes. But in France there 
is no such thing as friendship between a man 
and a woman, unless they are brother and 
sister, or fiance^ or old as — as Mount Horeb.” 

Alan laughed. One can laugh even when 
one’s heart is broken, you know. 

“ And if Madame Villarot is such a drag- 
oness — she does not look it. By-the-by, how 
do you come to be wandering about the Tuile- 
ries alone ? ” 

She glanced up at him with a petulant mo- 
tion of her scarlet lip, which was verj^ pretty 
and piquante. 

“Your gratitude, monsieur, is only equalled 
by your discernment. I came because Ma- 
dame Villarot has gone to drive, and because 
I wanted to see you — for old acquaintance’ 
sake, perhaps — or because I thought you 
might like to hear the news of Ermine from. 
Ermine’s Siamese Twin, as they called me in 
Charleston.” 

“ I see that I was not wrong when I used 
to say that, notwithstanding all the keen 
thrusts of that sharp sword, your tongue, your 
heart was in the right place,” said he, smiling 
kindly. “ Thank you very much, dear Made- 
Ion, for coming to see me, whether for old ac- 
quaintance’ sake, or for that other, better 
reason. But” (looking a little puzzled), 
“ how did you know that you should find me 
here ? ” 

She smiled — the smile of one secure of her 
own discernment, and proud of her own skill. 

“ I was sure of it,” said she. “ Could any 
one — especially a stranger in Paris, with no 
friends, and no places of familiar resort — pass 


DRAMATIC CAPABILITIES. 


95 


the open gates of the Tuileries without enter- 
ing? Cest impossible! I felt confident you 
would be here, and so I came. I saw him ” 
(motioning toward Nix) “ before I saw you. 
Then I knew I had not been mistaken.” 

“ And,” said Alan, drawing his hat a little 
lower over his eyes, and setting his lips a little 
more firmly under the drooping mustache, 
“ and vou come from Ermine ? Did she know 
tha<‘'^X>u were coming to me ? ” 

Madelon shook her head, her bright, dark 
eyes meeting his as steadily as ever. 

“ No, I dared not tell her. It would have 
served no good purpose, but would only have 
, unsettled her, and wakened the storm again. 
When things are at rest, they had better be 
left so,” said she, with an expression, which 
he did not exactly understand, flitting across 
her clear-cut, resolute lips. “ Ermine’s passion 
has expended itself — for the present at least — 
and where would be the sense of rousing it 
again, of overturning every thing and of mak- 
ing everybody miserable ? It would be worse 
than folly, worse than madness, and it shall 
not he done .^ ” ' . 

“ Did you come to tell me this ? ” asked 
he, looking at her a little curiously, for he did 
not comprehend what interest of hers could 
have inspired the passionate energy which lent 
force to the last words. 

“ Not entirely,” answered she. “ In fact, 
scarcely at all. I thought that Aunt Helene 
might have been unnecessarily peremptory, in 
refusing to allow you to see Ermine, and that 
I would come and explain any thing which 
might need explanation.” 

“You are very kind,” said he, gratefully, 
“kinder than I deserve. Don’t mind my 
hrusquerie, Madelon. I never was much of a 
preux chevalier^ at the best of times, but this 
trouble has made me harsh and suspicious 
toward every one. Your aunt was gentle and 
considerate in the extreme, a woman among 
ten thousand,” said he, smiling slightly, “ for 
knowing how to govern the flux and reflux of 
a man’s mood. I have promised her that I 
will not trouble Ermine again, and you may 
be sure that I shall keep my word.” 

“ Did you ever fail to keep it ? ” asked 
Madelon, her voice toned to sympathizing soft- 
ness, with just a thrill of admiration through 
it — a voice admirably calculated to sink into 
the depths of the confiding masculine soul. 
She scorned her&elf for the part she was play- 
ing, scorned herself with a scorn that fairly 


tingled to the ends of her fingers ; but, all the 
same, she took an artist’s pride in doing well 
what she attempted to do at all. “ I have 
known you a long time,” went on the sweet 
woman-tones, seconded by the lovely woman- 
eyes, “ and I never knew you to break a prom- 
ise yet, Alan.” 

“ It is more than can be said of some other 
people, then,” answered Alan, forgetting his 
gallantry, in a sudden remembrance of his 
wrongs. “ Madelon, what promise did you 
give me in Charleston last May ? And how 
have you kept it ? ” 

“ If you mean the promise to befriend Er- 
mine, ” said Madelon, quietly, “ I have done 
my best toward keeping it, from that day to 
the present.” 

“ And do you call it your ‘ best ’ to have 
let that scoundrel of a brother of mine in- 
veigle, force, or persuade her into a marriage ? 
— a marriage accursed, not blessed of God, 
since fraud was at the bottom of it ! ” 

“ There you are mistaken,” said Madelon, 
still quietly — as, leaning back, she held a 
dainty, lace-covered parasol to ward off the 
sun, from which the leafless boughs above 
were but small protection — “ there was no in- 
veigling nor forcing — nor persuading, I was 
about to say ; but I presume there was some 
of that — in the marriage, and certainly no 
fraud. Everybody clearly understood the 
terms of his or her bargain, for” (with a 
shrug) “ there certainly was not much senti- 
ment in the affair. Raymond wanted money : 
Ermine wanted freedom to leave America. 
She furnished the first — ^he gave the last. 
Yoda tout ! ” 

“ But she was engaged to me ! ” said Alan, 
fiercely. 

“ Engaged to you ! ” repeated Madelon, 
staring at him in honest astonishment. “ Is 
the man mad ? Engaged to you ! Why, you 
were drowned ! ” 

“Was I ? ” (with a short, unmirthful 
laugh). “ You see I have managed to come 
to life, nevertheless.” 

“Well, we thought you were drowned — 
which comes to the same thing. It never oc- 
curred to us that you would overturn things 
by coming to life again — ^so nobody took the 
event into consideration.” 

“ Apparently not. It showed great want 
of foresight and consideration in you, Nix ” 
(pulling the dog’s long, silky ears again), “ to 
drag me on that sand-bank when rav strength 


96 


EBB-TIDE. 


had given way, and I was comfortably going 
to the bottom, unconscious of the good news 
in store for me. We made a hard fight to 
live, down there under the scorching, tropical 
sun, didn’t we ? How much better every thing 
would have been, old boy, if we had not made 
any fight at all, but had resigned our souls to 
God, and our bodies to the sharks, with what 
philosophy we could muster ! ” 

“ Don’t talk that way,” said Madelon ; “ it 
is sinful, and it is foolish. Of course, it was 
your duty to try not to be drowned. But 
then, when you came to life and found that 
things were irrevocable, why could you not 
have kept quiet, like a sensible man ? Why 
need you have come and tried to disturb and 
distract Ermine’s mind when it could do no 
good ? ” 

“You follow the laudable example of the 
world,” said he, gloomily. Hit a man when 
he is down — the harder the better, by all 
means ! You ask me why I did these things. 
Good Heavens! You might as well ask a 
mad dog why he turns and bites.” 

“So, you have been mad? Well, I can 
believe it. But you are sane now, are you 
not ? ” 

“After a fashion — yes. At least I am 
sane enough to see that, since things are ir- 
revocable, I must endure, if I cannot accept 
them. But it is hard to go away without see- 
ing Ermine — without hearing from her own 
lips why she married that man ; and why she 
could not have paid me the slight respect of 
waiting to learn whether I was really dead, or 
of giving me a few months’ mourning if I 
were.” ' 

“ It is not necessary for you to see Ermine 
that those questions may be asked,” said Ma- 
delon. “ I can answer them as well as she. 
In the first, place, you know how acutely sen- 
sitive she is, how intense both her sufferings 
and her enjoyments always are. You ought 
to be able to imagine, therefore, what a blow 
the news of your death was to her. You can 
fancy, perhaps, how it stunned every faculty 
of her mind, and seemed to wrap her in such 
a state of lethargy that she did not care what 
became of her. Her only active wish was, a 
desire not to return to Charleston — where, as 
she often said, she had been ‘ so happy.’ She 
wanted to leave the country, but Aunt Vic- 
torine refused to accompany her, and she 
could not go alone. Just then, she learned 
that Mr. Erie’s house was on the verge of 


bankruptcy. You know Ermine — you know 
her impulsive generosity. Can you np^ ’’ealize 
that, stunned as she was, hopeless for you, 
caring nothing for herself, she should have 
been willing to sacrifice herself and her for- 
tune in the only possible way ? ” 

“ But the news of my death was merely a 
rumor. She should not have acted so hastily 
— she might at least have waited to hear the 
truth.” 

“ And do you suppose that she did not 
take every means to learn the truth ? Do you 
think she would ever have consented to the 
step of which I speak, unless she had been 
sure of your death ? She clung desperately 
to hope, until she had summoned to her pres- 
ence, and drawn every particular from, a 
sailor — your own mate — who said that he had 
seen you perish. After that, how could she 
doubt ? ” 

“ The infernal liar 1 ” said Alan, between 
his set teeth, while one strong hand twisted 
itself in Nix’s luxuriant mane, as if that had 
been the throat of the liar in question. 
“ W ell, life is long, and I shall pay off that 
score some day — until then, the devil can af- 
ford to wait for his instrument. Good God ! ” 
— what a passionate cry it was which seemed 
wrung from his lips — “ why is it that our 
lives, our loves, our very souls, lie at the mercy 
of such villains as these ? ” 

Life is full of such questions ; but from 
the blue sky above there comes no answer. 
Never yet has human despair, or human pre- 
sumption, wrung a solution of its perplexities 
from that dread yet glorious Presence, behind 
the veil of our mortality. In truth — 

“ Our warfare is in darkness. Friend for foe 

Blindly, and oft with swords exchanged, we strike : 

Opinion guesses : Faith alone can know 
Where actual and illusive still are like.” 

“ Well,” said Madelon, after a pause, 
“ you can see the rest for yourself. When 
Ermine heard of your arrival in Charleston, 
and of your intention of coming to Martinique, 
she left the island at once — preferring to take 
a long ocean-voyage alone sooner than meet 
you. Judge, therefore, what she felt, when you 
presented yourself in Paris ! Judge, if you 
are acting kindly or generously in thus making 
her hard lot infinitely harder to bear I ” 

“ Is that so ? ” said he, in a low voice. 
“ Did she leave Martinique to avoid me? Poor 
child 1 To think that I — of all men — should 
become her persecutor I ” 


DRAMATIC CAPABILITIES. 


91 


He uttered the last words to himself. Then, 
almost unconsciously, his face dropped into 
his hands and he sat silent for several minutes. 
Madelon would not disturb him. Unlike most 
women, she knew when to be silent — when to 
rest on her oars, conscious that the current 
was doing her work for her better than she 
could possibly do it for herself. She read 
Alan thoroughly, and she did not even need to 
ask “ How goes the fight ? ” for she felt sure 
that it was going excellently well from her 
point of view, and that victory would soon 
perch on her banners. Meanwhile, two little 
birds were singing the most charming possi- 
ble duet on the lightly-swaying bough just 
over her lace-covered parasol ; the music in 
the distance was thundering away at a grand 
march that made military visions dance 
through the most soberly civilian brain ; the 
waters of the fountain rose and fell in their 
marble basin with a soft plash ; every now and 
then loiterers strolled past, of whom one in 
ten, perhaps, admired the pretty picture made 
by the group — the lovely, freshly-dressed girl, 
the bronzed, handsome man, the magnificent 
dog lying at their feet, and the tender shadows 
flickering over them. There was quite an 
idyllic grace about the little scene. Unluckily, 
it is not always that the poetry of reality and 
the poetry of appearance go together. 

After awhile Alan looked up — somewhat to 
Madelon’s surprise, smiling a little. 

“ How quiet you are ! ” he said. “ Did 
you know that I was saying good-by to — to 
every tiling^ and were you silent out of re- 
spect ? Well, it is over — and you may be 
sure I don’t mean to be melodramatic about 
it. I am not the first man who has lost the 
woman he loved — though I can’t help thinking 
that mine is an aggravated case. But, if Er- 
mine can only learn to be happy, I can bear 
my own share of the robbery — for it is that. 
Madelon, do you think that she is — that she 
will be — happy ? ” 

“ She has learned content, at least,” an- 
€wered Madelon. “ In time — if you leave her 
alone — she may very reasonably learn happi- 
ness. I think she is on the road to it.” 

Poor Alan! Loyal and unselfish as he 
was, this was hard to hear, hard to receive as 
“ good news,” while his own heart was still 
Bore and sick and throbbing with great pain. 

“ You are not deceiving me, Madelon ? ” he 
asked. “ People sometimes think themselves 
privileged to do such things, ‘ for your own 

7 


good.’ For my part, it is saying very little to 
say that I should have no patience with such 
a pious fraud ; I would never forgive it, or 
trust the author again.” 

“ Don’t be so fierce,” said Madelon, smil- 
ing. “ I have committed no ‘pious fraud.’ I 
have told you the simple truth.” 

“ Honestly ? ” 

“ Honestly.” 

“ Then,” said he, with a great effort, “ she 
shall have the opportunity to ‘ learn happiness ’ 
— if she can 1 God grant that she may ! But 
it is not like the Ermine whom I have known 
all my life — the most faithful and gentle of 
women — to find even content such an easy 
lesson. I do not understand it, Madelon.” 

“ Why not ? ” asked Madelon, with an un- 
easiness which she could not entirely conceal. 
“ You made a goddess of Ermine, but in reality 
she is only a woman — neither better nor worse 
than most of us. Then you should remember 
that this blow, which is fresh with you, is old 
with her. But ” (eagerly), “ you must not 
misunderstand me — you must not think that 
she is not suffering acutely, suffering so much 
that I speak as her best friend when I beg you 
to go out of her life, and, if possible, not to 
let even your memory come back to torment 
her.” 

“ I will go,” said he, sharply. “ If possible, 
even my memory shall not come back to tor- 
ment her ! I promised Madame Villarot that 
I would leave Paris to-night, and, as you re- 
marked a little while ago, I always try, at least, 
to keep my promises. I shall keep this one. 
I shall go to-night.” 

“ Where ? ” asked she, eagerly — a little too 
eagerly, as it chanced ; but it is hard to be al- 
ways on one’s guard. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Who can tell ? Not I. To the devil, 
probably 1 That is where people in my condi- 
tion mostly go.” 

“ Not to America ? ” (again a little too ea- 
gerly). 

He looked at her keenly. As she had 
good cause to know of old, those sea-colored 
eyes could occasionally be very keen. 

“ No,” said he, slowly, “I scarcely think I 
shall go to America. Thanks for your inter- 
est. But why do you ask ? ” 

“ Ermine will like to know, I am sure — for, 
if you remain in Europe, her life will be passed 
in a continual fever and dread of meeting 
you.” 


98 


EBB-TIDE. 


He laughed bitterly. 

“ And so you think the Continent of Europe 
not wide enough to keep us apart ? Why, 
are you not content, will she not be content, if 
1 covenant not to return to Paris ? ” 

“ But she may leave it.” 

“ Tell me where she is likely to go, and I 
will avoid all such places.” 

“ It is hard to tell exactly,” said Madelon, 
drawing her straight, dark brows together. 
“ W e have relations in different parts of 
France, and then Aunt Helene talks of Baden 
for the summer — of course, too. Ermine will 
go to Munich and Dresden, on account of art.” 

“ Then,’.’ with a smile which she did not 
altogether like, “ I am formally excluded from 
France and Germany. Pray does Italy share 
in the prohibition ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Madelon, rising and 
looking a little offended. “You seem to think 
that I have some interest to serve in the mat- 
ter. I only spoke for your own good and for 
Ermine’s. Of course it is a matter of indiffer- 
ence to me where you go.” 

“ Forgive me, Madelon,” said he, rising 
too, and standing before her. “ Don’t let us 
part in vexation. That would be a poor return 
for your kindness in coming to meet me. I 
had no right to speak so rudely ; but I meant 
nothing — save that such things come hard on 
me. I will do my best to keep clear of Er- 
mine’s path — I promise you that. Now, must 
you go ? ” 

“ Indeed I must,” Answered she, with a 
dismayed glance at her watch. “Aunt He- 
lene will be back, and what will she think of 
me ? No, no, Alan, you must not come with 
me — that would be adding double weight to 
the enormity of the misdemeanor. You must 
say good-by here, please ” — putting out an ex- 
quisite little gray hand. 

“ I suppose you know best,” said Alan, tak- 
ing it, regretfully, “ but it seems hard lines that 
I cannot even walk with you to your own door. 
Think better of it, Madelon, and let me make 
your excuses to Madame Villarot. We are 
such old friends ! ” 

“ Good Heavens, no ! ” cried Madelon, 
aghast at this proposal — as well, indeed, she 
might be, since the game which she w^as play- 
ing would have delighted Mr. Erie for its bold- 
ness ! — “ she w'ould never forgive me ! And 
you, Alan — surely you would not return to the 
very house which holds Ermine.” 

“ This minute, if I thought only of myself,” 


answmred Alan “ No — you needn’t start. 1 
try to think of her, and so it is not likely that 
I will do it. Confound that impertinent fel- 
low ! ” (glaring at a loiterer w'ho had lifted his 
eye-glass in passing, and taken a scrutiny of 
the pair more keen than polite). “ Are these 
French manners, Madelon ? ” 

“ They are manners of all over the world, 
I fancy,” said Madelon, smiling, “ when a gen- 
tleman continues to hold a lady’s hand in the 
most affectionate manner on a public prome- 
nade. Say good-by, Alan — I really must go ! ” 
“ Good-by, then,” said Alan, giving the 
hand in question a pressure which made it 
ache for a good ten minutes afterward. “ God 
bless you, dear Madelon — and stand by her as 
a faithful friend ! ” 

“ I will,” said Madelon. 

And she absolutely meant it. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“mon camarade!” 

“ Le mieux est I’ennemi de bien,” says a 
sensible French proverb — and a better exam- 
ple of its truth could not be given than that 
which the interview just concluded had af- 
forded. “ Le mieux ” had certainly proved 
with Madelon, in marked degree, “ I’ennemi de 
bien.” Every thing which she desired had 
been effected for her by Madame Villarot, yet 
she distrusted so thoroughly the sincerity and 
stability of Alan’s resolution that she was not 
content until she had endeavored to lend to 
this resolution added force. The result was, 
that she overshot her mark — as many a clever 
archer has done before. 

Having already spoken of the spell of good- 
ness and honor which seemed breathed like an 
aroma over Madame Villarot, it is almost un- 
necessary to say that it was this alone which 
enabled her to conquer Alan’s stubborn will, 
and to induce him to leave the woman he 
loved. But there was no such magnetism 
about Madelon. Fascination of a certain sort 
was hers, in bountiful measure ; but it was the 
fascination which dazzles — not that which in- 
spires an abiding sense of trust. No one could 
ever say of her, “ I believe in this woman be- 
cause goodness and purity are written on her 
face ; ” it was only possible to say, “ I believe 
in this woman because she is of exceeding 
fairness because her voice is sweet, and her 


“MON CAMARADE!” 


99 


eyes are eloquent.” Now, this is a mode of 
reasoning with which ninety-nine men out of a 
hundred are eminently satisfied, and, no doubt, 
if Alan had been in love with the fair face, the 
sweet voice, and the eloquent eyes in question, 
he would have found it satisfactory also. 
But, as it chanced, he had always distrusted 
the beautiful creole ; and never did this dis- 
trust press so strongly upon him as after he had 
given that parting clasp to her daintily-gloved 
hand, in the garden of the Tuileries. 

When she was gone, he sat down again on 
the bench from which he had arisen, and ad- 
dressed himself to the task of “ thinking over ” 
the interview just ended. The more he thought 
it over, the stronger the feeling of distrust, 
which at first had been purely unconscious, be- 
came. Her account of Ermine’s marriage was 
plausible enough — that he acknowledged — but 
her eagerness to send him out of Paris, her 
desire to keep him far from Ermine’s possible 
path of life, struck him as suspicious. It was 
true this might have been accounted for on the 
score of unselfish affection toward her cousin 
— but no one who knew Madelon could possi- 
bly have affirmed that unselfish affection was 
her strong point. Self had always subordi- 
nated every other consideration with her, de- 
spite a certain fitful attachment to a few per- 
sons, a certain fitful power of making now 
and then a sacrifice — provided always that 
there was some element of grandeur about it. 
With the glamour of her eyes and smile with- 
drawn, her words, which still lingered in Alan’s 
memory, seemed to have the ring of false coin 
— coin which, instead of being sterling gold, is 
base metal — and, try as he would, he could 
not banish this impression. When he left 
Madame Villarot, notwithstanding all his bit- 
ter pain and sadness, he had felt secure, secure 
that truth, and truth only, had been spoken to 
him, secure that, with that gentle lady. Ermine 
would at least be free from annoyance or pain. 
He was ready to leave Paris then, ready to go 
back to America and covenant never again to 
look upon the sweet face of the woman he 
loved. But all this was changed when Made- 
Ion’s ill-omened beauty and fascination crossed 
his path. He distrusted her — he said that 
again and again to himself — swearing, too, a 
deep oath that she would not compass her 
end, whatever that end might be. “ She is 
Raymond’s tool, no doubt,” said he, bitterly — 
“ paid, very likely, to keep me from seeing 
Ermine! Well, what I have promised, I will 


do — the more readily since Ermine herself is 
anxious to avoid me. Madame Villarot’s word 
is good for that. I shall leave Paris to-night — 
but I shall not leave the Continent of Europe. 
My health is suffering from the hardships of 
my shipwreck, and a little travel will do me 
good. W e need to shake off morbid feelings 
and thoughts, don’t we, Nix ? We will shake 
them off, too, old boy ! We’ll climb Mont 
Blanc, and sail on Lake Leman, and go to see 
your canine brethren at the Hospice of St. 
Bernard. Mademoiselle Lautrec is very clever, 
but with all her cleverness she has not disposed 
of us yet — and by the Heaven above, old dog, 
she never shall ! ” 

From which it will be seen that Mademoi- 
selle Lautrec had certainly overreached herself 
in no slight degree. After all, it is a fortu- 
nate thing that the good old times of poisoned 
roses and gloves are over— else Captain Erie’s 
days might have come rather abruptly to an 
end, if Madelon had chanced to overhear or 
suspect the resolution with which his soliloquy 
had closed. 

Madelon, however, had gone home con- 
gratulating herself on the successful issue of 
her bold experiment, had looked approvingly 
at her fair face in the mirror draped with 
pale-blue hangings, had laid aside her prome- 
nade costume for a gold-colored silk with a 
golden rose in her dark hair, had clasped on 
her statuesque arms and neck the jewels for 
which she had signed away her honor, had 
finally gone forth to astonish Madame Villarot 
by “ her wonderful fortitude,” and to win the 
admiration and flattery which had become as 
necessary to her existence as the air she 
breathed. She was so exultant over the bright 
prospect opening before her, that it required 
all her well-trained dramatic power to preserve 
even a semblance of pensive sadness. She 
would have liked to laugh, to sing, even to 
dance along the polished floor, bidding life come 
and be enjoyed. Did she feel no remorse over 
her accomplished work ? She would have 
laughed in your face if you had suggested 
such a thing, and told you that she was not 
“ sentimental.” 

These things were her rights — this wealth, 
and enjoyment, and happiness — and Alan was 
the robber who had come to wrest them from 
her. Why should she not be glad, then, that 
she had so successfully met obstinate strength 
with subtle strategy, and done the best, not 
only for herself, but for everybody else ? 




100 


EBB-TIDE. 


‘ Belle ^ faire peur ! ” said she, making a 
sweeping courtesy before one of the grand 
mirrors of the saloon, as the soft wax-lights 
flashed back from her diamonds. “ Now, at 
last, I am happy ! — now, at last, I live the life 
for which I was born ! If that horrible man 
would only go and be drowned in earnest, my 
cup of felicity would be full to the brim ! ” 

The horrible man, thus devoted to watery 
destruction, had, several hours before this 
time, left his pleasant seat in the garden of the 
Tuileries, and strolled away into the busy 
city — the city so wonderful that one might 
think it enchanted if one did not know that 
here, as well as elsewhere, tears are shed, 
pangs suffered, and death-gasps given. But 
these things seem far away out of sight. To 
the stranger there is nothing to suggest such 
awful, and, alas ! such common extremes and 
possibilities of human anguish. It is her 
brightest face which the fair city shows on the 
Rue de Rivoli, the Faubourg St.-Honore, the 
Palais Royal, the Champs Elysees, and the 
beautiful Bois with the glory of sunset re- 
flected in its magical lakes. The very atmos- 
phere seems golden with the glamour of fan- 
cy and the poetry of romance ! In Notre- 
Dame the air is full of faint fragrance, like a 
dream of incense, while a stream of light, fall- 
ing athwart the marble pavement, pales with 
its glory the steady lustre of the sanctuary 
lamp suspended in front of that majestic altar 
on which the hands of martyred prelates have 
offered the consecrated Host. Under the 
grand old arches that have echoed the divine 
eloquence of Lacordaire, shadowy forms pass 
to and fro; here and there, at the different 
chapels, candles flicker in the mellow gloom ; 
every thing is full of harmony, every thing is 
wrapped in tranquil silence and holy repose. 

Little as Alan could boast of any thing 
save that natural reverence which it speaks 
ill for any man to fox’get, the gay sunshine and 
the jostling crowd jarred on him, as he came 
out from the dim, religious hush of the great 
cathedral, and bent his restless steps toward 
the Louvre. If he was not an artist, at least 
he had artistic appreciation in no common de- 
gree ; so it was no wonder that the remaining 
hours of the afternoon were all spent among 
the marvellous paintings and statues gathered 
in those great, golden halls. It was worth 
while to roam and loiter there at will, and after 
a time to watch the close of the radiant day 
from the tall windows, to see the sunset tints 


streaking the tender sky, the evening vesper 
of light and perfume ascending, the wonderful 
glory spreading over the heavens and resting 
like a benediction on the churches and palaces, 
the flashing river and stately columns, the an- 
cient quarters and new boulevards of “ the 
town of Clovis, of Clotilde, of Genevieve, the 
town of Charlemagne, of Saint-Louis, of Philip 
Augustus, and of Henry IV., the capital of the 
sciences, the arts, and of civilization.”* 

So absorbed in the beauty without as to be 
forgetful even of the beauty within, Alan scarce- 
ly noticed how the galleries were thinning, how 
the well-dressed loungers and the busy artists 
were alike departing, but still stood with folded 
arms gazing on the matchless scene outspread 
before him, when a hand was suddenly laid on 
his shoulder, and, turning, he faced that which 
he least expected, and perhaps desired — an ac- 
quaintance. 

“ This is Alan Erie, I am sure,” said a 
slender, dark-eyed young man. “ I have been 
watching you for at least ten minutes, but you 
would not turn round, and so I was obliged to 
claim your notice in this way. Have you for- 
gotten me — Stuart Lamar, of . Georgia ? I 
went to school with you, if you remember,” 

“ I remember perfectly,” said Alan, frank- 
ly shaking the extended hand. “ In fact, we 
have met since then, I think. Didn’t I dine 
at your father’s house in Savannah, two years 
ago ? ” 

“ Certainly you did ! ” responded the other, 
smiling ; “ and didn’t you return the compli- 
ment when I went over to Charleston, by in- 
troducing me to three of the prettiest girls I 
ever saw ? — Have you been long in Paris ? ” 

“ Long enough to be tired of it. And 
you ? ” 

“Well, I- am fresh at sight-seeing — I 
haven’t been here more than a fortnight, so I 
have not begun to be tired yet. The greatest 
drawback to my enjoyment has been an inca- 
pacity to understand or be understood. I 
thought I was a pretty fair French scholar, 
but the confounded people will talk so fast. 
Don’t you And that rather puzzling ? ” 

“ I am a sailor, you know, and used to 
speaking many tongues of many lands. I un- 
derstand, iind manage to make myself under- 
stood — after a fashion, at least.” 

“ It is very refreshing to meet you,” said 


* Letter of the Count de Chambord on the bombard- 
ment of Paris. 


“MON CAMARADE!” 


101 


Lamar, with evideiv: sincerity. “ After a man 
has been roaming about in a foreign land, he 
appreciates a familiar face.” 

“ And a familiar tongue,” said Alan ; “ that’s 
better yet, isn’t it ? But see ! unless we mean 
TO spend the night among the pictures and 
statues, we’d better be moving. This place will 
soon be shut up. Are you with a party ? ” 
The other made a comical gesture with his 
shoulders and eyebrows. 

“ No such good luck ! Several of us start- 
ed from home together, but, somehow, no two 
had the same idea about the tour, and we had 
scarcely landed before we separated. As for 
me, I came to Paris, and devilish heavy work 
I’ve found it all alone ! My principal amuse- 
ment has been to walk about the streets, listen 
to the bands — does it strike you that a band 
always is playing somewhere ? — look in at the 
cafes^ and say with Hood : 

“ ‘ When yon go to France, 

Be sure you know the lingo, 

For, if you don’t, like me. 

You will repent, by jingo I ’ 

Let me return your question, by-the-by, and 
ask if you are with a party ? ” 

“ No such bad luck ! ” answered Alan, 
shrugging his shoulders, as they went down- 
stairs. “Where are you staying?” he went 
on. “I am leaving Paris to-night, but still — ” 
He stopped in his speech, amused by the 
dismay which came over Lamar’s face. 

“ Leaving to-night ! ” he repeated. “ Good 
Heavens ! what do you mean by that ? Why, 
Paris is glorious just now — and I have been 
thiixKing what a splendid time I should have, 
with you to do the talking for me. We would 
go to Versailles, and Fontainebleau, and St.- 
Cloud, and— and the opera every night. I 
like that better than the theatre, because I 
can understand the music. My dear fellow, 
pray think better of it ! Consider—” 

“The lilies of the field?” asked Alan, 
laughing. “It is rather early for them, my 
dear boy — at least just here. Perhaps I shall 
find them in their glory when I reach Italy 
next week.” 

“ Italy ! ” repeated the other, still petulant. 
“ What the devil are you going to Italy for ? 
Do you expect to meet anybody there ? ” 

“ One never knows who may turn up in 
the way of friends and acquaintances— wcfe 
)\\T pleasant encounter — but I have no such 
iefinite expectation.” 

‘ Then why on earth do you go ? Excuse 


me ! I’m afraid I’m awfully rude, nut it is really 
enough to try a man’s patience ! fetay, Erie — do 
stay ! I’ll wager any thing you won’t regret it. 
You can't have seen everything in Paris, you 
know — or, if you have, it will all bear being 
seen over again.” 

“ My dear fellow — ” 

“ Oh, deuce take it ! — that tone tells the 
tale. ‘ My dear fellow, I am sorry to be dis- 
obliging, but must really, etc., etc.’ ’Pon my 
honor, it is too bad ! It is like the dear ga- 
zelle, when one finds a friend, only to lose him. 
Look here, Erie ! — will you be honest and say 
‘ No,’ if what I am about to propose does not 
suit you ? ” 

“ Without the least hesitation,” answered 
Alan, truthfully enough. 

“ Then tell me frankly if you are anxious 
to go to Italy alone, or if you woula like a 
companion ? ” 

“ Yourself?” 

“ Myself, of course. Now, don’t say ‘ Yes,’ 
unless you mean it.” 

“ Let me think a minute,” said Alan. 

So, as they walked along in the dusk, he 
considered the proposal. He knew very little 
of Lamar ; but that little assured him that the 
young Georgian was a thoroughly good fellow, 
a genial, frank gentleman, and the person of 
all others to cast the sunshine of bright spirits 
over a journey by land or sea. If Alan wanted 
a companion at all, certainly he might go far- 
ther and fare worse than with the one who was 
ready to his hand just here. But did he want 
a companion ? That was the rub, and, if he 
had answered the question according to his 
first impulse, he would certainly have uttered 
a negative. But Lamar’s fresh, eager face 
and the accents of the home-voice had uncon- 
sciously attracted him. After all, he was set- 
ting forth to shake off morbid thoughts, not to 
nurse them, and, if he travelled alone, was there 
much hope of his doing the former, or his not 
doing the latter ? Would not such a companion 
as this be really worth more than any amount 
of other remedies ? As he hesitated — and ah ! 
would he have hesitated at all, if he had only 
known how much hinged on this decision! 
— one fair, pure star quivered into sight above 
the house-tops, and his decision was sud- 
denly taken. 

“Lamar,” said he, “don’t misunderstand 
my silence. I shall be sincerely glad if you 
will go with me to Italy. I meant to go to 
Switzerland, but it is too cold for that just yet 


102 


EBB-TIDE. 


But I must start to-night. That is imperative. 
Would you care to make such a sudden 
move ? ” 

“ I sba’n’t break many hearts by my depart- 
ure,” answered Lamar, with one of his boyish 
grimaces, “ and my traps are few. I don’t see 
why I cai.’t start to-night, therefore. If you’ll 
take me, I think I’ll go ! I feel like a man 
who, having been shipwrecked, suddenly meets 
— Hallo ! What the deuce — why, man alive? 
1 have just remembered that the last 1 heard 
of yow, you were drowned ! How, in the name 
Neptune, did you come to life again ? ” 

“ Under a galvanic battery,” responded 
Alan, grimly. “ Nature’s patent, not likely to 
be stolen by art — only, as a friend, I wouldn’t 
advise you to try its effect. A sand-bank in 
the tropics isn’t the best possible place for any 
constitution short of a salamander’s. It is in 
conseqtience of this that I am going to recruit 
mine in Italy.” 

“ I thought you looked badly,” said Lamar, 
simply, ‘‘ but, like a fool, I did not think of 
the cause. Keally, I am ashamed of myself!” 

“Don’t be, my good fellow ! There isn’t 
the least need of such a sentiment.” 

“ But I ought to have remembered ! I 
recollect well how shocked I was when I read 
the announcement of your death. But, some- 
how, the whole thing went out of my head 
when I saw your familiar shoulders this even- 
ing. I said to myself, ' There isn’t such 
another pair in the world,’ so up I marched, 
without thinking for a moment that the shoul- 
ders in question might be ghostly nothings. 
But I forgot — where did you say you were stay- 
ing ? /’m at the Hotel du Louvre, near by.” 

“ And I at the Hotel du Khin. Will you 
come with me ? I left my dbg there, and, un- 
less I go to him, he will enliven the establish- 
ment by such a series of howls that the police 
will very likely have to be called in. That is 
a Parisian's remedy for every ill, you know. 
Come, and you shall order the menu yourself. 
We don’t leuve till 11.60, so that will give you 
time enough to look after your traps.” 

“ All right,” said Lamar, receiving any and 
every proposal with the utmost amiability, pro- 
vided he was not called upon to relinquish 
sight of his new-found comrade. 

Having refreshed the inner man, the two 
friends found that their “ traps ” required 
very little arrangement, and that, after this 
duty had been dispatched, a whole evening 


yet hung heavily on their hands. Lamai 
yawned so piteously, that, compassionating his 
enmd^ Alan carried him olf to the Comedie 
rran9aise, where they saw a sparkling comedy 
charmingly acted, then they strolled back to 
their hotel through the illuminated streets, 
and, as Madelon was taking the golden rose 
from out her hair, and the brilliant ornaments 
from off her arms, they dashed away into the 
night, with the head of their fiery horse turned 
straight toward the fair South. 

4 

CHAPTER IX. 

“ ONE FACE ! ” 

Under the blue, rarely blue sky of Italy, the 
Lago di Como lies like a sheet of lapis-lazuli 
in the noontide sun. There is scarcely breeze 
enough to ripple the glassy surface of the 
water, or steal through the closed jealousies of 
the palaces and villas which gem its winding 
shores, while in the shade of their deep arched 
entrances, or beside the marble steps, against 
which the azure waters softly plash, lie the 
brightly-cushioned pleasure-boats, motionless 
and unoccupied. The rustle of a leaf is scarce- 
ly heard on the steep mountain-sides, which, 
girt by the olive and fig, the laurel and cactus, 
tower above the placid lake, flanked by the 
grand, snow-clad peaks of the higher Alps. 
In the fairy hanging-gardens, and on the ter- 
races studded with boskets of orange, olean- 
der, and myrtle, every sound is mute. The 
embowered convents and the picturesque vil- 
lages with their tapering spires lie wrapped in 
such absolute repose that it is almost possible to 
imagine that an enchanter’s wand has hovered 
over the fair scene and bound it with a spell. 
Even the swarthy, sunburnt fishermen have 
fallen asleep in their boats, secure in the grate- 
ful shadow of some olive-shaded, land-locked 
bay. In truth, a potent enchanter has been 
at work — that high-noon of the South, whose 
imperative ardor proclaims an armistice of 
labor. Spring has melted into summer, and 
even on the Lago di Como the scorching heat 
of the latter season holds triumphant sway. 

Scorching it is ; for not one breath of the 
welcome north breeze has come down from the 
Alpine hills, to stir the drooping leaves of the 
foliage, or ruffle the mirror-like surface of the 
lake. On the terrace of a villa near the beau- 
tiful promontory of Bellagio, two ladies are 


“ONE FACE!” 


103 


seated under an awning, both of them waiting 
eagerly for the first breath of this breeze, and 
one of them now and then leaning over to fan 
the other. A very strong, pleasant face the 
latter has, a face surrounded by bands of iron- 
gray hair, and brightened by keen, intelligent 
brown eyes. These eyes are a little sad and 
very tender as they rest on her companion, a 
pale, slender, dark-eyed girl, who seems wasted 
away to a shadow ; whose fragile hands as they 
lie in her lap look almost transparent ; and 
whose feet are plainly standing on the verge 
of that unknovTi sea which mortals call im- 
mortality. After a while, she looks up at her 
companion with a sweet smile, speaking Eng- 
lish with a soft, Southern accent. 

“ Thanks, dear Miss North, you are so 
kind. But please don’t tire yourself ; it is al- 
ways tiresome to fan anybody.” 

“Not to me,” answered the elder lady. 
“ But, if it worries you, I can call Lucia. She 
does it well, and never tires.” 

“ No, no, let poor Lucia sleep. You know 
she was awake all night. My cough is so 
annoying at night, and then the fever makes 
me restless. I am afraid ” (with a short sigh) 
“ that I am very impatient, and give a great 
deal of unnecessary trouble.” 

“ You impatient 1 My darling, how can 
you say such a thing ? Only the other morn- 
ing I found Lucia crying, and I asked her 
what was the matter. ‘ The signorina is too 
good,’ she said, shaking her head and sobbing 
‘ She is ready for paradise.’ So you see ” 
(with a faint smile) does not find you 
very troublesome.” 

“ That is because she is so faithful and de- 
voted. Ah, how fortunate I have been to find 
such a friend as you, and such a servant as 
Lucia, in my hour of need 1 Dear Miss North, 
I wonder if you will thoroughly realize, when 
you go back to your own life and your o^vn 
friends, what gratitude and love the girl for 
whom you have sacrificed so much felt for 
you ? ” 

“I have sacrificed nothing,” said Miss 
North, hastily. “ Ermine, my child, don’t you 
know that you have grown nearer to my heart 
than anybody else in the world, nearer by far 
than my own kindred ? Is it a sacrifice to 
live in these beautiful lands with you, and try 
to take care of you ? My bonnie darling, stay 
with me 1 That is all I ask.” 

“ But that is not for me to grant,” said Er- 
mine, putting out her frail, burning hand — 


burning with the fever which had sapped the 
foundation of life. “Dear friend, kind friend 
— the kindest, save one, that I have ever 
known — I am not sure that I would grant it 
if I could 1 Life is very sweet to those who 
are rich in its gifts and goods — but what have 
I ? ” 

“ You have youth, beauty, great talent, and 
many possibilities of happiness.” 

“ When health is gone, youth is gone,” 
said Ermine, sadly, “ and beauty too. With 
my talent — such as it is — I have done what I 
could, and, if God spared my life, T should hope 
to do more. But He knows best. As for the 
possibilities of happiness — well. Art is fair 
and Nature is fairer. But are not these only 
types of that Beauty on which the eyes of the 
spirit shall open ? We think that nothing 
could be more exquisite than this lovely lake ; 
but surely the Hand which gave this to the 
material senses can give something better yet 
to those which are immortal ? ” 

“ My child, who doubts it ? ” 

“ Ah, then ” (with passionately - clasped 
hands), “ why wish to stay ? If love is sweet, 
think what it must be to love Love itself! * 
If beauty is fair, think what it must be to see 
Beauty such as ‘ it hath not entered into ihe 
heart of man to conceive !'* Now, those have 
been my two passions — love of love, and love 
of beauty. God made them both. It can- 
not be wrong, then, to climb by them to 
Him.” 

“ W rong ! ” Miss North could say no more, 
for tears rose up and choked her. 

“ Am I paining you ? ” asked Ermine, gen- 
tly. “ Ah, dear Miss North, don’t shut your 
eyes to the truth. I talk of these things be- 
cause I am very near them — so near that fear 
seems to have left me, and I feel the trust of a 
little child who is led by its mother’s hand into 
the dark.” 

“ Ermine,” said Miss North, suddenly drop- 
ping her fan, and seizing the girl’s delicate 
hands, “ tell me — in the midst of your grief, did 
you ever pray for death ? ” 

“ Never,” answered Ermine, simply. “ How 
could you think such a thing ? I have never 
been so wicked as that. But, somehow, the 
burden of life seemed too heavy for me when 
my boy went out of it. You know it was not 
as if he had been any ordinary friend or ordi- 


* These words are borrowed from an expression Ir 
“Le E6cit d’une Soeur.” 


104 


EBB-TIDE. 


nary lover — but he had been the stay and idol 
of my life. I hope I was not sinful in my 
{rrief — I tried not to be. But existence looked 
so blank — so dreary. I thought to myself, 

‘ How shall I bear this desolation through the 
long years of a lifetime ? ’ Of course, people 
told me I would forget it ; but I knew better 
— I knew that I never forgot any thing. I was 
a little child when my father died, but I shed 
tears for him now as bitter as those which I 
shed then. I knew that, if I lived to be seven- 
ty, I should still mourn for Alan. And God 
knew it. So He called me from the burden 
and heat of the day, and I — how can I be sor- 
ry ? If I lived longer, I might commit some 
sin which would shut me out from heaven for- 
ever. Now I have not much to reproach my- 
self with — except being too little resigned when 
love and happiness went from me — last Oc- 
tober.” 

“ Child,” said the elder woman, sorrowfully, 

“ I never knew before what a good thing in- 
constancy is.” 

“ Is it ? ” said Ermine, smiling — a shadowy 
but ineffably sweet smile. “ Ah, no ! Blessed 
be God for memory ! If every bright gift of 
earth were offered to me in exchange for the 
recollection of my darling, do you thing I 
would take them ? Do you think I would buy 
health, and beauty, and happiness, at such a 
price ? Do you think I could even resign my- 
self to death if I did not know that the recol- 
lection will go with me into life ? Perhaps I 
think of it too much ” (with a wistful, pathetic 
look), “ but I cannot help it. The saints loved 
God purely in and for Himself, but we must go 
to Him through our earthly passions. I am 
sure our dear Lord will not be hard upon me 
for being too faithful to my poor human love. 
But see ! — here comes the breeze ! ” 

She turned her pale face toward it as she 
spoke — drinking in its cool refreshment eager- 
ly. As her gaa« wandered toward the distant 
snow-clad heights from which it came. Miss 
North’s eyes dwelt on her. Ah, what ravages 
the last few months — nay, even the last few 
weeks, had made ! Over the pale face and the 
fragile form, the very shadow of Azrael seemed 
to hover. Life, deprived of its only light, had 
indeed proved too much for the great, passion- 
ate heart, the gentle, faithful nature. Some 
people have one gift, some another ; few are 
so poor as to be without any. Ermine’s was 
the gift of constancy. Alan Erie might have 
been dead to all the rest of the world, but to 


the tender heart which, winning once he had 
won forever, he still lived, and still — 

“ One face, remembering nis, forgot to ermlef 

The wasted lines of that face spoke so elo- 
quently to Miss North’s heart, that many salt 
tears dropped in her lap before she could find 
voice to speak. Then she said, gently : 

“ Ermine, darling, don’t you think you 
might be better if you tried to cross the Alps ? 
It seems to me that this climate may account 
for your extreme debility.” 

‘‘ I cross the Alps ! ” said Ermine. “ I 
could not even cross that promontory yonder ! 
Dear, kind friend, why won’t you see the 
truth ? I would rather you did, because there 
is no telling how soon the realization may be 
brought home to you. If I needed any con- 
firmation of my own knowledge, I should have 
found it in the doctor’s face when he saw me 
this morning — and in Pere Aubre’s ” (this was 
a French priest who chanced to be staying at 
Varenna), “ when he left me a little while ago. 
No, the end is very near, and I think I may 
say I am ready for it. If it came to-night — as 
it may do — I can go, having left no duty 
knowingly unfulfilled. I have written to mam- 
ma and to Madelon. You will find the letters 
in my desk. Then I left some instructions — a 
will, I suppose it might be called — concerning 
the little property which I retained. Some of 
it goes as a marriage-portion to Lucia; the 
rest I have left to charity. For you, my kind 
and only friend, I have but ray love, my grati- 
tude, my prayers, and every thing personal to 
myself which you may desire to keep. What 
you do not keep, give to Lucia. No one else 
will care for them. I did not leave you any 
money” (smiling a little), “because I know 
that, with the property left by your brother, 
you are able to provide for all your wants, and 
it would have seemed like — like paying you 
for all you have done ! ” 

“ I am glad you did not,” said Miss North, 
between her tears. “ Love’s service can only 
be paid with love.” 

“ I know it,” said Ermine, softly. 

After this there was silence again. Lightly 
the breeze came over the water, rippling it 
into a myriad iiny waves which broke with 
soft, musical plash against the flight of steps 
reaching from the terrace, not to the water’s 
edge, but to the very water itself. The eyes 
of the dying girl gazed wistfully on the fairy 
beauty and brilliancy of the scene — the azur< 


“ONE FACE!” 


105 


lake, the lofty mountains, covered with almost 
tropical verdure, the gleaming palaces, temples, 
and villas, the nimbus of golden sunlight over 
the distant Alpine peaks, the fish darting to 
and fro in the pellucid water. Happy fish, to 
live in the waters of Como, we are almost 
tempted to think. But no doubt even fish 
have their troubles — especially when they are 
caught. As Ermine gazed in silence on this 
wealth of magical beauty, a small boat, which 
had been lying in a shadowy cove near the 
promontory, pushed out from the shore, and, 
propelled by lazy but evidently practised 
strokes, began to move over the water, leaving 
a track of glorified sunlight behind. It had an 
awning, and, as well as could be seen, con- 
tained only one occupant, though, as a matter 
of fact, another recumbent figure lay in the 
bottom, while a large dog crouched motionless 
at the stern. Though the little craft was far 
from being one of the gay harciolinas which 
tourists and sight-seers patronize, it made a 
pretty adjunct to the scene, and Ermine 
watched its course with that interest which 
trifles sometimes waken in the sick. 

Near and more near it came, until at last 
it glided in front of the villa, only a few feet 
distant from the terrace on which the ladies sat. 
The oarsman — a young, handsome man, wear- 
ing a broad-brimmed straw hat — suffered it to 
float slowly by, as he caught sight of the two 
figures under the orange trees. Sickness had 
not robbed Ermine of all her beauty. Her 
eyes still remained — larger, darker, softer than 
ever — and the outlines of her face were all 
fair and pure. Just now she looked like a 
“ marble saint niched in cathedral-w^all,” with 
her white robe falling to her feet, her hair 
pushed back behind her dainty ears, and in 
her slender fingers the glittering beads of a 
gold-and-amethyst rosary. Something like a 
luminous calm seem breathed over her. The 
struggle had been bitter and fierce — had 
drained, indeed, the very life-blood of the 
suffering heart — but victory had brought a 
peace like unto no peace of earth, a peace 
which comes only as the avant courrier of that 
dread angel whom the children of men account 
a destroyer, but the children of God a deliv- 
erer. 

“ Look, Alan ! ” said Lamar, in a low tone 
— “ look what an exquisite face that girl has ! 
There’s something half divine about it, only it 
leems to me I have seen it somewhere before.” 

“ It isn’t the extreme of good-breeding to 


stare at people as you chance to row by their 
terraces,” said Alan, lazy and sleepy, and 
thoroughly indifferent to all the exquisite faces 
in the world. “ Beauty is the birthright of 
these Italian women ; and as for seeing this 
face before, you may have seen it on the Corso 
the other day : a great many Milanese have 
villas on the lake here.” 

“But look!” persisted Lamar. “We 
shall be beyond sight in another minute, and 
I don’t think that a sw'eeter face was ever 
seen. The complexion is like a magnolia- 
petal, and the eyes are full moons, as the 
Turks say.” 

“ Full moons they may remain for me,” 
said Alan, “I would not lift my head just 
now to see Sabrina herself rise from the lake. 
I begin to appreciate what dolce fir niente 
means, and — Nix, keep still, sir I What the 
devil is the matter with you ? — Hallo ! Look 
out there, Lamar, or the fool will upset this 
cockle-shell 1 ” 

The warning came too late. Nix, who had 
been whining and moving restlessly ever since 
they came in front of the terrace, now made a 
sudden dart overboard, which capsized the 
craft, and, in a second, the two young men 
found themselves in the lake. 

Now, a plunge-bath is never pleasant, not 
even when you have had time to think about 
it. But, when it has the additional drawback 
of being totally unexpected, it is difficult to 
imagine any thing more absolutely disagree- 
able. Leaving the two struggling swimmers 
to their fate, let us go back a moment and ex- 
plain the cause of the disaster. 

It is probable that, by some sympathy 
known only to canine intelligence, the dog had 
been aware of the neighborhood of his quon- 
dam playfellow and patroness, as soon as he 
came near the villa, but he only manifested 
this consciousness by restless movement and 
whining, until they were abreast of the spot 
where Ermine sat. It was then that she sud- 
denly exclaimed : 

“ Ah, what a magnificent dog I Look, 
Miss North — in the stern of the boat! Does 
he not remind you of — of Nix ? ” 

Low as it was, her voice was singularly 
clear, and Nix’s ears were attentively pricked. 
Lamar saw her lean forward with sudden in- 
terest and speak to her companion, but he did 
not catch the words — in consequence of not 
being gifted with the auditory powers of a 
dog. The word “ Nix ” had scarcely passed 


106 


EBB-TIDE. 


her hp8, however, when the owner of that name 
sprang overboard ; and, disregarding the ca- 
tastrophe which he left behind, swam straight 
toward the terrace. 

“1 never saw — ” Miss North was begin- 
ning, when this event occurred. — “ Good Heav- 
ens ! " she cried, springing to her feet. “ The 
dog has capsized the b.oat ! — the men will be 
drowned 1 What on earth are we to do ? ” 

Though she was unable to do any thing, 
she ran ctuwn to the steps excitedly, while Er- 
mine sat still, with sympathizing eyes of inter- 
est on tiie scene. She soon saw that there 
was no question of drowning, for both men 
were exjiert swimmers. Instead of making 
any effoi t to save their lives, they were simply 
endeavoi ing to save the boat — to catch it, and, 
if possible, to right it. This, however, was 
difficult. 

“Bring it here! — bring it here!” cried 
Miss North, standing on the steps, and gesticu- 
lating wild*y. The familiar words (used quite 
•unconsciously) rang clearly over the water, 
making Lamar say to Alan in somewhat splut- 
tering fasluon : 

“By Jove! those people yonder are Eng- 
lish — and che old lady is a trump,! Look at 
her, standing on the steps waving her hand- 
kerchief!” Then he shouted in return: 
“ Thanks ! — we are coming ! ” 

“ How ridiculous they look ! ” said Miss 
North, beginning to laugh as soon as she saw 
that there was to be no tragedy. “And they 
are En — Oh, you horrid creature ! I don’t 
know how you dare 1o show your face ! You 
are the cause of it all ! ” 

These last remarks were addressed to Nix, 
who just then emerged from the water, and, 
without stopping for even a single shake, 
rushed past the dismayed lady, full at Ermine. 

“ Nix ! — it is Nix ! ” cried the girl, in a 
voice of mingled amazement, terror, and de- 
light. “ 0 my God, what does this mean ? — 
Nix ! ” 

“ Bow, wow, wow ! ” said Nix, lifting up 
his great throat, and opening his great mouth 
to attest his joy. Then — with a perfect river 
of water pouring from him — he sprang, in his 
old fashion, straight on the trembling girl. 

Miss North gave a shriek, and flew to the 
rescue — for she thought Ermine was verily be- 
ing eaten. Alan heard the shriek, and, having 
seen Nix bound up the steps, suspected what 
was the matter (suspected, that is, that the 
dog was making himself obnoxious) ; so, leav- 


ing the boat to the care of Lamar, he struck 
out with a will for the villa. In a minute he 
reached it, and, as he sprang on the steps, 
Miss North turned round. 

“Oh, sir!” cried she, “for Heaven’s sake 
come quickly ! I can’t get this dreadful dog 
away, and I am afraid the young lady has 
fainted.” ' 

“ Nix, you scoundrel, get down this min- 
ute ! ” cried Alan, in wrath, as, giving himself 
one vigorous shake to relieve his clothing of 
its superfluous weight of water, he strode has- 
tily forward. 

But the flrst tone of his voice had fallen 
like a thunder-clap on the little group. Nix 
dropped to the ground as if he had been shot 
— Miss North dropped into a chair, as if she 
had been shot — while Ermine rose to her feet 
with a look of such transfigured joy on her 
face, that “ ecstasy ” is the only word which 
will apply to it. There was no amazement, 
there was no doubt, there was no questioning. 
Joy was so great and so overwhelming that it 
swallowed every other feeling, as the ocean 
swallows the rivers which flow into it. 

“ Alan ! ” she said, in a tone which neither 
of the two who heard it ever forgot. 

Then she made a step forward, and fell 
lifeless into his arms. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE TIDE GOES OUT. 

“ Has she fainted ? ” Alan asked, looking 
at Miss North, as his eager words remained 
unanswered, and he felt the fragile form grow 
heavy on his arms. 

“ God only knows,” was her reply, as she 
came forward and touched the marble brow, 
the nerveless hands, the thread-like pulse. 
“ She has only fainted — as yet,” she said, after 
a moment. “ Bring her into the saloon, and 
let me try to recover her.” 

She led the way, and he followed without a 
word, bearing the light burden which he had 
thought never to bear again. With /wm, 
amazement subordinated every other feeling. 
How did Ermine, whom he imagined in Paris 
with Madelon and Madame Villarot, come to 
be here on the Lago di Como with her old 
governess ? His whole frapie thrilled with 
the passionate delight of feeling her close to 
him once more ; but, even in the first moment 


THE TIDE GOES OUT. 


107 


of meeting — that bitter-sweet moment when 1 
she came to him straight as the needle to the 
magnet — he had remembered that she was his 
orother’s wife. Not his — not his — never again 
his — was the thought which ran through his 
heart and mind, even while he pressed kiss af- 
ter kiss on the dark, silken tendrils of hair, 
the pale, unconscious, sculptured face. 

“ Put her down here,” said Miss North, in- 
dicating a broad couch, on the cushions of 
which a faint impression bore evidence to its 
having been lately occupied by the same slight 
figure. “ Take that pillow from under her 
head — now open the blinds, and fan her gen- 
tly.” 

She crossed the floor and rang a bell — then 
came back, and, kneeling down by the couch, 
began to chafe the girl’s hands. Her heart 
sank within her — the swoon was so deep that 
she almost feared breath would never come 
again to those half-unclosed, motionless lips. 

“On that table yonder you will find a 
flacon of ammonia,” said she, to the drenched 
Triton beside her. “ Bring it here.” 

He moved away — leaving a pool of water 
on the marble floor to mark where he had 
stood — and in a second returned with the 
flacon. Then he, too, knelt down, and laid 
his hand over the almost silent heart. 

“ I can scarcely feel it,” he said. “Are — 
are you sure she is not dead? ” 

“ Not yet,” said Miss North, a little bitter- 
ly, “ but this may kill her. The shock was 
enough — and then look at these drenched 
clothes ! They must be changed at once. 
Will you ring the bell again ? ” 

He was rising to do so, when a dark-browed 
Italian maid came hastily into the room. 
“ Ah ! la signorina, la signorina ! ” cried she. 
breaking into lamentations as soon as she 
caught sight of the motionless, death-like form 
on the couch. She, too, came and flung her- 
self on her knees beside it. 

“ Silence, Lucia,” said Miss North, in Ital- 
ian. “ She is not dead — she has only fainted. 
Help me to bring her back to life.” 

“ But she has been in the lake, signora ! ” 
(touching the damp, clinging draperies won- 
deringly). 

“ Not quite — only something very near it. 
Go quickly for dry clothes^ — and bring the 
brandy with you. As for you ” (looking up at 
Alan, and speaking in English), “ you must go, 
too. Her eyes must not open on your face — 
that is, if they open at all again. If you will 


wait yonder ” — she pointed to the teiTace — “ I 
will come to you in a few minutes.” 

“ But you will let me return as soon as 
she is conscious ! ” said he, almost imploring- 
ly- 

“ That will be for her to say,” answered 
Miss North, almost sternly. “ Ah, see ! — life 
is coming back. Go ! ” 

Life was indeed coming back. Faintly, 
slowly, with a long, tremulous sigh, the breast 
began to heave, the lips parted a little wider, 
and gave a glimpse of the teeth, like pure, 
white cocoa-nut within, the dark lashes quiv- 
ered, and it was evident that in another mo- 
ment the white lids would lift. 

“ Go ! ” repeated the ex-governess, impera- 
tively. “ It will never do for her to see you 
here. Go ! ” 

“ I am going,” he answered, in a low voice. 

And, with one lingering glance, he went. 

On the terrace outside Nix was lying, look- 
ing very crestfallen ; on the steps Lamar was 
standing, a dripping Triton number two, watch- 
ing the boat with a rueful face as it lazily 
floated farther and fartheh away. 

“ I say, Erie,” he cried, as soon as Alan 
appeared, “ don’t you think these good Samar- 
itans must have a boat ? Everybody has, you 
know. If they would be good enough to lend 
it to us, we could catch that confounded craft 
quick enough. As it is, what the devil will 
old Beppo say ? ” 

“ Let him say what he pleases,” said Alan, 
flinging himself into the first one of the vacant 
chairs. “ The thing will be picked up some- 
where — and we can pay him for damages.” 

“ He’ll swear it hadn’t a sound plank left 
in it ! ” grumbled Lamar, watching the truant 
craft. “ And yonder goes my hat following 
leisurely in the wake! Well” (sitting down 
on the topmost step), “I suppose it is the 
will of God ! That is what these pious people 
say whenever any thing happens. — Nix, you 
rascal, come near me, will you, and I’ll take 
pleasure in breaking every bone in your 
body 1 ” 

“ Here’s a chair, Lamar,” said Alan. 

“ I look like sitting in a chair, don’t I ? ” 
said Lamar, surveying himself grimly. “ By- 
the-way, Alan, was the young lady hurt or only 
frightened ? I think that dog of yours must 
have gone out of his wits.” 

“ Nix recognized her,” said Alan, putting 
out his hand to pat the dog’s great, curly 
head. “ But for him, I should have passed by 


108 


EBB-TIDE. 


without even faintly guessing who was so near 
me.” 

“ What ! you know her ? ” 

“ Know her ! It was Ermine St. Amand ! ” 

Lamar sprang to his feet — sat down again 
— gave a long whistle — and finally said : 

“ By Jove ! ” 

After a while, he recovered sufficiently to 
add something else. “ I thought I knew her ! 

I thought I could not be mistaken in imagin- 
ing that I had seen that face ! What did she 
do when she saw you, old fellow ? ” 

“ Fainted,” said Alan, laconically. 

“ And has she come to, yet ? ” 

“ Not yet.” 

“ By Jove ! ” said Lamar, again. 

Then he suddenly dashed his hands into 
his hair and tossed it about in such an extraor- 
dinary fashion, that he speedily assumed the 
appearance of a well-drenched maniac. 

“ This is horribly awkward,” said he — “ for 
you, at least. I say, Alan, can’t we get away? 
There must be some way of leaving here by 
land ! For Heaven’s sake, let us try it ! ” 

“ / shall not stir a foot,” said Alan. “Fate, 
chance, the mercy of God, what you please, 
brought me here. Being here, I shall stay.” 

“ But, my dear fellow, you know you can’t 
— you know it is impossible ! What good will 
it do? Come, be reasonable! You will do 
the poor girl herself an inestimable benefit, if 
you will only go before she comes out of her 
swoon.” 

“ Stand back, Lamar ! ” said Alan, shaking 
off the hand which the other, coming forward, 
had lain on his shoulder. “ Don’t try to 
preach to me ! By God, I will not endure it ! 
I see in her face that she is dying ! — do you 
hear me? — dying! — and no power of earth 
shall tear me away from her now.” 

“ But what is the good of it ? ” persisted 
Lamar. “You know as well as I do that she 
is married.” 

“ That she is what ? ” asked a sudden, deep 
voice behind the young men. 

They both turned quickly, and faced Miss 
North. Unperceived, she had come through 
the open window of the saloon, and, advan- 
cing on them from the rear, had caught Lamar’s 
last words. 

“ Of whom are you speaking ? ” demanded 
she, looking from one to the other. “ Who is 
married ? ” 

“We were speaking of Miss St. Amand,” 
said Alan, as Lamar’s self-possession entirely 


failed. “My friend was reminding me that 
she is married. It is a fact which I had not 
forgotten — which I am not likely to forget.” 

“It is a lie, rather, of which you have 
come in time to hear the contradiction,” said 
she, almost fiercely. “ Come away — farther 
away ! Ermine must not overhear this.” 

She walked quickly to the farther end of 
the terrace, and Alan followed. Lamar, with 
instinctive delicacy, remained where he was. 
“ The devil is to pay I ” he thought. “ They 
won’t want rne ! ” 

They did not want him in the sense of 
needing him, but neither of them would have 
hesitated to speak freely before him — Miss 
North, because she would willingly have told 
her indignant story to the whole w^orld ; Alan, 
because a sincere and abiding friendship had 
long since sprung up between himself and the 
young Georgian. If Lamar had followed them, 
he would have seen how quickly two honest, 
straightforward natures can tear away the 
veil which falsehood or intrigue may have 
woven before the truth. 

Alan’s side of the story we know. 

Miss North’s was this : The year before, 
she had been teaching in Montreal, when she 
met the Erie party, who, en masse^ had accom- 
panied the Saxtons on their bridal tour. Er- 
mine was delighted to see her d-devant govern- 
ess, and they were together a great deal. The 
girl was very sad concerning Alan, from whom 
she had not heard for a long time, and it was 
evident to the keen eyes of the shrewd English- 
woman that the family determination to marry 
her to Raymond was, if possible, on the in- 
crease. “ But she was like a rock,” said this 
faithful friend ; “ I have never seen constancy 
and resolution that equalled hers, with all her 
childlike gentleness. After a while, they re- 
signed their persecutions for a time ; and I 
think they had almost resigned all hope of 
compassing their end, when the news of your 
death came. 

“ I cannot tell you what that news was to 
Ermine. You must look at her face to read it 
there. My poor words would very faintly de- 
scribe such a death-blow to hope, and love, and 
life. It has simply killed her. Well, they 
scarcely gave the desolate child time to realize 
her grief, before ffie plots, and plans, and per- 
secutions, began afresh. Mr. Erie came on ’n 
person, and I have always suspected that he 
originated and was chief in executing the 
scheme which was finally carried out when 


THE TIDE GOES OUT. 


109 


they found that the will which opposed them 
was like granite. He paid me the compliment 
of suspecting that I inspired Ermine’s ob- 
stinacy, so his first move was to carry the 
whole party otf to New York, under pretence 
of seeing the sailors who had arrived at that 
port and hearing the whole truth of your ship- 
wreck. I confess I was very uneasy after they 
left. Ermine was in that horrible numb state 
which follows a great shock, and I feared that, 
in her lethargic indifference to every thing 
concerning herself, she might be persuaded or 
forced to ruin her life forever, as such a mar- 
riage would ruin it. Judge, then, of my relief, 
when, after an ominous silence of several 
weeks, I received a very gracious letter from 
Mrs. Erie, begging me to come to New York 
and thence accompany Ermine to Germany, 
where she desired to go and study art. I 
threw up my situation and went at once. 
When I reached New York, I found your 
brother engaged to Madelon Lautrec.” 

“ To Madelon Lautrec ! ” 

“ Yes, to Madelon Lautrec. Worked upon 
by every possible appeal to her generosity, in- 
different to every thing save her determination 
to remain faithful to your memory, and anxious 
only to be left in peace. Ermine had made 
over her fortune to her cousin, between whom 
and your brother a mercenary bargain was 
speedily struck. I found that, of all her 
wealth, she had retained only a portion suffi- 
cient to insure a support apart from exertions 
which might have proved unsuccessful, and at 
least could not soon have been remunerative. 
The whole thing seemed simple enough to her. 
To be relieved from the anxiety of wealth, for 
which she had no love, to be able to go to 
Europe, and to endeavor to forget her desola- 
tion in the art to which she was born, this 
was all for which she cared. This was all she 
did. Of the fraud which came after, her 
hands were stainless.” 

“ How, then, did it come ? How could she 
be robbed, not only of her fortune, but of her 
very identity, without at least permitting it ? ” 

“ Listen : you shall hear. ‘ If you are 
going to Europe to study art as a profession, 
and if you mean to make your bread by it,’ 
said Mrs. Erie, ‘ you must take some other 
name than your own. I cannot suffer my 
daughter to do such a thing as my daughter.’' 
(You remember Ermine had surrendered her 
fortune to save her step-father from bankrupt- 
cy.) ‘ Well, mamma,’ said Ermine, listlessly, ‘ I 


promise that you shall not be disgraced by my 
labors. Tell me what name to take, and no 
one who knew me as Mademoiselle St. Amand 
shall know me as an art-student. What shall 
I call myself? ’ I remember how Mrs. Erie 
seemed to think for a moment before she 
said : ‘ Suppose that, as Madelon is about to re- 
sign her name, you were to take that ? It is a 
family name ; there was a Lautrec St. Amand 
several generations ago, and therefore not like 
one which would be only assumed.’ Ermine 
assented to this as indifferently as she assented 
to every thing else, and also bound herself not 
to seek out her relations in France. You will 
consider me very stupid, perhaps, that I did 
not see the drift of all this, that I did not sus- 
pect the contemplated change of identity, but 
in truth people are slow to see such things 
when they occur under their own eyes. In 
books we are always expecting wiles, and in- 
trigues, and villanies, but, in real life, nothing 
is farther from our thoughts. We can scarce- 
ly realize it, in fact, when it is forced upon 
our perception. Ermine and I sailed from 
New York before the marriage, and it was not 
until long afterward that I began to think 
what had been done. I was not sure of it, 
however, until I came out and heard your 
friend say that Ermine was married. Then, 
like a flash, I understood every thing. 

“ Well ” (as he stood utterly silent, utterly 
passive, stunned apparently by the blackness 
of the abyss of treachery into which he had 
fallen), “ you wonder, perhaps, how we came 
here. We went to Germany, as I have already 
said, to Munich, to Dresden, to Dusseldorf. 
But even art had lost all power over Ermine. 
She looked with strange, absent eyes at the 
most beautiful pictures ; she would sit before 
her easel with her brush in her hand all day, 
and scarcely paint a stroke. At last she took 
a cold, w'hich very much alarmed me. She 
never complained, but she wasted away like a 
shadow, and at last I called in a physician. 
He told me that the climate was too severe for 
her, that I must bring her to Italy. ‘ She is a 
child of the South,’ he said, ‘ and the South 
alone can cure her.’ But he was wrong ; the 
South has not cured her. Slowly but surely 
she has faded away before my eyes. We spent 
the spring in Rome, and, as summer came on, 
moved gradually northward. I was anxious 
to go to Lake Leman, but Ermine clung to 
Italy. She could not bear to cross the Alps; 
and so we stayed here until her strength was 


110 


EBB-TIDE. 


too far spent to take any journey whatever. 
An English friend of mine who occupied this 
villa was suddenly summoned home, and we 
moved into it. It would have been a charm- 
ing place to linger in, only — only — ” 

She stopped short and her fortitude gave 
way. Leaning down on the carved balustrade 
below which the magical waters, that a hun- 
dred poets have sung, were softly plashing, 
she burst into a passion of tears. 

“ 0 my God ! my God ! is not this too. 
bitter ! ” she cried. “ If you had come one 
month earlier, there might have been hope — 
who can say ? Now^ you have only come to 
fill, with the longings of time, the spirit which 
stands on the brink of eternity ! Oh, it is too 
cruel ! Oh, it is too hard ! Oh, why has it 
been permitted ! ” 

So she moaned to herself in the anguish of 
her grief and love, while Alan — dry-eyed, and 
as he felt, almost dry-hearted— quietly watched 
her. With him, even grief was swallowed up 
in the passionate desire for revenge which 
took possession of his soul like a burning tem- 
pest. There were solace and comfort there at 
least. He would fulfil his vow, he would re- 
turn every pang which she had suffered, every 
tear which she had shed, on the authors of 
this treacherous wrong. He would hurl them 
down from their high places in the world’s 
esteem, and point them out as the cowardly 
traitors which they were. He would hold 
them to account for the life which they had 
murdered. And then he, too, broke down, 
not in sobs, but in one great groan, which 
seemed as if it might have rent his chest asun- 
der. The thought which proved too much 
for him was, how near he had been to the 
truth in Paris ; how only a thin veil had sepa- 
rated him then from the knowledge which was 
now gained, too late. Alas! it is just such 
veils as these — -*such fine, impalpable tissues of 
falsehood, or deception, or misunderstanding — 
which make more than half the bitter misery 
of this bitter life. 

“ Don’t regret that I have come,” said he, 
at last, almost harshly. “Don’t grudge me 
one hour of happiness to sweeten a lifetime of 
desolation 1 Don’t think that, if angels and 
saints are calling her, she will pine to stay 
with me ! God did not mean that she should 
pass away holding a lie for truth, and so He 
sent me. So long as He gives me life, I shall 
thank him that He did so. After Him, I 
thank Lamar, who would insist on coming 


here, though I have long been feverishly 
anxious to go back to the sea.” 

“ And so you had given her up ? ” 

“ Could I do other ? Ah, how could I 
dream — each day I have hoped that, perhaps 
with every hour, she was drawing nearer to 
happiness ? ” 

“And so she has been,” said Miss North, 
gently. “ After all^ does not God know best ? 
Nothing is chance. He would have sent you 
before this, if he had meant you to come. 
But ” (with a sudden start), “ you must go now 
and dry your clothes, you and your friend. 
I have neglected it so long, that I am afraid 
you will both be ill. Yonder is Lucia; she will 
show you a room. When you are ready, come 
back here to the terrace, and I will let you see 
Ermine.” 

Three hours later, the golden day is slowly 
drawing to its close. Fair, on the immemorial 
mountains that mirror themselves in the azure 
waters below, sleeps the incarnadine glory of 
an Italian sunset. A thousand sweet sounds 
and perfumes, sounds and perfumes fraught 
with the aroma of enchanted Italy, steal in 
through the open casement of the saloon to 
the dying girl lying there so quietly at peace. 
The loveliest scene of earth is spread before 
her eyes, but it may be that already the gaze 
of the spirit has caught the marvellous towers 
and battlements of that fair “ city of the 
saints of God,” beside which all earthly beauty 
pales into insignificance. At least these things 
appeal but faintly to her now. The tide is 
going out, going so gently, that those around 
can scarcely realize how near at hand is the 
last ebb. Alan, who has seen men die, can 
scarcely force himself to believe that this is 
death, that any child of earth can lie in the 
embrace of the terrible messenger as if en- 
circled by a mother’s arras. At one side of 
the couch he kneels : at the other. Miss North 
is seated ; Lucia is at the foot, sobbing over 
an ivory crucifix ; Lamar slowly paces the ter- 
race ' outside. It is only within the last few 
minutes that these have been called in. For 
nearly three hours the two so cruelly kept 
asunder, so strangely brought together, were 
left alone. What passed in that last interview, 
none knew, save, indeed, that Ermine’s dying 
prayer had made her love forego his revenge. 

“ Leave them to God, dear love — oh, leave 
them to God 1 ” she said. “ It seems almost 
too hard that we should have been kept apart 


THE TIDE GOES OUT. 


Ill 


BO long ! — that we should meet now only to 
say good-by ! — that we should have suffered so 
much and so bitterly ! — but remember how 
they will have to answer for every causeless 
pang at God’s tribunal, and do not darken 
your soul by usurping His office. You see ” 
— putting her tender arms around the throat, 
which something was almost choking — “ I am 
going first, but I shall watch and wait for you, 
and 0 Alan, dear Alan, try to come ! It 
seems to me that I shall miss your face even 
in paradise ! ” 

“ My darling, I will try ! ” he answered, 
brokenly. “ Tell me how.” 

Then in her sweet, low voice she told him 
things which have no place in such a page as 
this. Some themes are too holy to be handled 
save by a reverent pen for 'reverent eyes to 
read. It is enough that on her death-bed this 
frail, dying girl spoke some simple words which 
God was good enough to touch, as it were, 
with His divine power, and which, falling deep 
into the heart of her listener, brought forth 
good fruit in the after-time. 

But all this is over now. The long exer- 
tion has taxed her strength so much that she 
can only lie with her head pillowed on Alan’s 
arm, her eyes in their deep gladness fixed on 
his face — and, so resting, softly pass from time 
into eternity. The good priest who was there 
in the morning had given her the last rites of 
the Church, and she had refused to allow him 
to be summoned again. 

“ It is useless,” she said. “ It would only 
trouble him — and he looked sick when he left 
this morning. Give him my love and my rosa- 
ry, dear Miss North, and tell him how grate- 
ful I am for his great kindness to me.” 

No one was forgotten in these souvenirs — 
even Lamar received a tiny gold charm from 
her chdtelaine^ “ In memory of your shower- 
bath,” she said, with a smile, which the young 
man thought was the sweetest he had ever 
seen. 

And so, while they watch and wait, the 
sun begins to sink. The “ vast-skirted clouds ” 
gather about the lofty peaks, and form har- 
monies of color for which language has scarce- 
ly a name. The waters of the lake catch the 
glory and give it back increased a thousand- 
fold. The golden and rose-colored tints fling 
a tender radiance into the saloon, filling it 
with a strange, luminous light, like the atmos- 
phere with which some of the old painters sur- 
round the figure of a saint. 


“ How lovely ! ” says Ermine, turning her 
languid gaze to the shining waters outside. 
“ Alan, do you remember the evening before 
you went away, when we stood on the Battery 
and watched the sun go down over the bay of 
Charleston ? It was not half as fair as this 
peerless Lago di Como, yet it seems to me 
that I can see it all now — and your smile when 
you said, ‘ Only four months to wait ! ’ ” 

Alan cannot answer. The scene of which 
she speaks comes back to him, too — the famil- 
iar home-scene on which his eyes have gazed 
a thousand times — on which, if they ever gaze 
again, it must be alone ! He remembers how 
blooming and lovely with the tints of youth 
and health was the pale face beside him, then 
— and, so remembering, a great ocean of bitter- 
ness once more wells up in his heart. 

“ Oh, my darling ! my darling ! ” he cries, 
throwing his arms around her and straining 
her passionately to him. “ Stay with me ! — ■ 
stay with me ! My God, what shall I do with 
this useless life of mine when you have gone 
from it forever ? ” 

“ Forever is not of time,” answers she, 
softly — even this passionate cry being unable 
to stir the ineffable peace which Death brings 
with him to the great in faith and the pure of 
heart — “ that belongs to eternity, Alan. 0 
dear love, may it indeed belong to eternity 
for us ! ” 

“ But I cannot give you up to eternity — I 
will not give you up ! ” cries he, madly. “ 0 
Ermine, try to stay ! Are we not told that all 
things are possible to will ? Surely your place 
is here ! Surely God does not want you as I 
do ! ” cried the poor fellow, in the greatness 
of his grief unconscious of his own irreverent 
words. 

Something like a look of pain crossing her 
face, however, makes him suddenly aware that 
this fever of earth is marring the calm which 
is already of heaven. 

“ But suppose I would rather go ? ” she 
whispers. “ For a long time death was very 
terrible to me, and I shrank from it — but now 
it seems so easy. Pain, and strife are all gone 
— and would you bring them back ? Ah, 
Alan, you say our Lord does not want me. At 
least He loves me, for He takes me from every 
possible grief of life, to give me this painless 
death in your dear arms — and ah, who can 
tell what more beside! But for your grief, 
poor love, I should be quite happy ! ” 

At this he chokes it back. After all, Uf« 


112 


EBB-TIDE. 


Is long, and he has all its years for mourning 
— if he choose to use them for such a purpose. 
Surely, then, he can refrain from breaking the 
divine peace which hedges around this gentle 
handmaid of the Great King — this tender mar- 
tyr, who bore her cross unflinchingly until she 
sank in the dust of the wayside, and to whom 
has come now the rest which follows faithful 
combat. 

“ Alan,” whispers again the sweet voice 
whose music will soon be hushed for earth, 
“ will you promise me once more that you will 
not endeavor to avenge our wrongs — on any 
one ? ” 

She had read well the direction of his 
thoughts, she had understood well the ominous 
knitting of his brows. He started, and blushed 
like a convicted school-boy. 

“ My darling,” he said, “ can you not trust 
me to do what is right, can you not believe — ” 

“ You must promise me,” she interrupted, 
eagerly. “ I cannot die in peace unless you 
do. I will not leave you with a possible sin to 
stain your soul, and perhaps — who knows — 
keep us apart forever. — Lucia ! ” 

She extended one transparent hand, and 
Lucia — seeing what she meant — placed the cru- 
cifix in it. 

“ Promise me on this ! ” she said to Alan. 
“ See ! — I cannot argue with you any more ; I 
can only ask it of your love. Remember it is 
the last gift you will ever be able to give to 
me.” 

He bends his head, and, taking her hand, 
kisses the crucifix which she holds before him. 

“ I promise,” he said ; then, with a burst, 
“ 0 Ermine, there is nothing I would not 
promise you ! — but this is hard ! ” 

“ Is it ? ” said she, with a tender smile. 
“ Where there is no sacidfice, there is no merit. 
Our Lord will know how to repay you all it 
costs. One thing more, and I am done : will you 
give this to Madelon ” — she unclasped a small 
cross and chain from her neck — “ and tell her 
from me that I beg her, by the love she used to 
bear me, to take her own name, and, for her 
soul’s sake, not to live under the weight of a 
constant lie ? Give her my love, but say noth- 
ing of my forgiveness — I cannot think that it 
vs needed ; I cannot think that she dreamed 
of this.” 

He took the chain and looked at it irreso- 
lutely. He knew that he could not trust him- 
self to see the treacherous woman from whom 
he had parted in unsuspecting friendship. 


“ Can I not send it in a letter ? ” he asked, 
at last. 

“ Yes,” she answered, “ that will do. I 
have written myself.” Then, after a short pause, 
she glanced at the maid. — “ Lucia, is it not 
nearly time for the Angelus ? ” 

“ It will ring in a few minutes, signorina,” 
answered Lucia, sadly. 

“ Then say the Litany for a Departing Soul. 
I am a little tired now.” 

The girl at once began the litany in the 
usual sing-song Italian fashion. All was 
hushed and silent in the saloon, while her 
voice rose and fell over every supplication. 
The cadenced tones came out to Lamar, and, 
though he did not recognize the beautiful 
words which they chanted, instinct made him 
pause in his tread. He knew the end must 
be at hand. Meanwhile, Ermine lay white and 
silent as a lily in her lover’s arms, and, even 
when the last supplication had died away, she 
remained so motionless that Miss North’s heart 
stood still. 

“ Ermine ! ” she said, leaning over. 

But the soul had not yet gone. The lids 
lifted from the dark eyes — the light of affec- 
tion flashed into them. She held out her arms 
toward her faithful nurse. 

“ Kiss me ! ” she faltered, gently. “ I — I 
think it is very near.” 

After this long embrace was over, she gave 
a kind farewell to Lucia — whose passionate 
grief alone found vent in sobs — then, looking 
up at Alan, she smiled faintly, and said — 

“ Nix ! ” 

In a few minutes the dog was brought. 
He seemed to know that something not usual 
was the matter, for he scarcely needed his 
master’s warning, and placed his leonine paws 
with great gentleness on the couch. For the 
last time those slender, wasted arms went 
round his massive throat, 

“ Good-by, dear old fellow ! ” she said, 
with loving tenderness — and kissed him gently 
between the eyes that were gazing at her with 
such strange, wistful intelligence. 

“ Let him stay,” she murmured, brokenly, 
as Alan tried to make him go away. “ He re- 
minds me of the old times — the dear old times ! 
Love, do you remember them ? Ah, how 
happy we were ! — Is it not something to have 
been so happy once ? ” 

Then the lids fell again. Her head lay on 
his shoulder — for he had raised her that she 
might give her farewells — and her pu*e, ala- 


THE TIDE GOES OUT. 


113 


baster cheek rested against his own, hot with 
the fever which was consuming him. His 
passionate kisses woke no flush on the white 
skin, kindled no fire on the sweet lips. Even 
when he called her name in love’s tenderest 
tone, the dark lashes which veiled her eyes 
scarcely trembled. 

But now the sun had gone, and suddenly 
over the shining waters came the soft sound 
of a bell chiming from the tower of an embow- 
ered convent not far away. As Lucia sank on 
her knees, and Miss North involuntarily followed 
her example, the lids lifted once more from 
those eyes which Alan had thought closed for- 


ever. Feebly she raised her hand and made 
the familiar sign of the cross. Her ear caught 
the familiar words which Lucia was sobbing 
forth. When the verse was ended, she joined 
softly in the “ Ave.” 

“ Hail, Mary, full of grace — ” 

There the voice stopped — forever. The 
last words she spoke on earth were the words 
uttered eighteen hundred years ago by the 
angel of the Annunciation to the Holy Virgin 
of Nazareth. 

And so, while the whole world of faith 
were on their knees, the tide ebbed gently 
away upon the Unknown Sea. 


THE END. 



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MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW 


A STOR r IN SIX CHAPTERS. 


CHAPTER I. 

<< T WONDER what she will be like ? ” said 
-L pretty Rose Inglesby, half musingly, 
half pettishly. “ She might have had con- 
sideration enough to send one her photo- 
graph ! It is very tantalizing to be expect- 
ing a woman, and not even to know what she 
looks like — not even, in a general way, wheth- 
er she is pretty or ugly. Suppose I toss up a 
sixpence, and decide that point at least by 
heads and tails ? Mamma, have you a six- 
pence ? ” 

“ Don’t be foolish. Rose,” answered Mrs. 
Inglesby, placidly. 

This was Mrs. Inglesby’s usual reply to 
her daughter’s usual flow of gay nonsense ; 
and on this occasion the remark had a de- 
cidedly sedative effect. Miss Inglesby leaned 
back, yawned, and said no more. The flies 
hummed drowsily, the clock ticked obtrusive- 
ly, and for five minutes an unbroken silence 
reigned in the bowery drawing-room, with 
its lace curtains and India matting, its grace- 
ful furniture, and cool, Venetian blinds. The 
two ladies, who were its only occupants, had 
the width of the room between them ; and, 
although it was evident that they were both 
enduring that unpleasant expectation which 
is the same in kind, however much it may 
difler in degree, whether a battle or a guest 
is impending, yet it was also evident that they 
bore this trying ordeal very differently. Mrs. 
Inglesby — a model of the “ fair, fat, and 
forty ” type of good looks — seemed indemni- 
fying lierself for her broken siesta by a luxu- 
rious rest in a deep fauleuil., while Rose — who 
was seated in an inscrutable school-girl fash- 
ion in the corner of a sofa — did not keep still 


for two consecutive seconds. At last, rest- 
lessness prevailed over indolence, and with a 
quick motion she rose to her feet. 

“ This is intolerable ! ” she said. “What 
with the heat, and the waiting, and the un- 
certainty, I am so nervous I don’t know what 
to do with myself. Mamma ” (indignantly), 
“ I believe you are absolutely asleep ! ” 

“No I am not,” said Mrs. Inglesby, in a 
suspiciously drowsy tone of denial. 

“ I only wish I was ! ” said Rose ; and 
then she began pacing to and fro. As she 
moved across the floor, practising various 
steps, and various modes of carrying her 
shoulders and arms, by way of passing the 
time, she suddenly caught a glimpse of her- 
self in a large mirror, and this glimpse made 
her pause. She stopped and gazed, fascinated, 
as any one else might have been, by the fresh- 
ness of her complexion, the grace of her feat- 
ures, the sheen of her hair ; and as she gazed 
she smiled — first unconsciously at her own 
loveliness, then consciously at her own vanity. 

“ Mamma,” she said — paused a moment, 
considered, and finally went on — “ mamma, I 
wonder if she will be prettier than I am ? ” 

“ Prettier than you are ! ” echoed Mrs. 
Inglesby, with a start. Then she looked up 
at her daughter, and it was easy to see from 
the coolness with which she went on that this 
egregious want of modesty was not uncommon 
on Miss Inglesby’s part. “ I can’t say. Rose ; 
but I should think it was very probable. She 
had quite a reputation before she was married, 
you know ; and Harry — poor fellow ! — always 
spoke of her as a great beauty.” 

“ I have something of a reputation, too,”- 
said Rose, still looking at herself in the glass ; 
“ and if I married I am sure I should feel very 


116 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


badly if my husband did not think I was a 
great beauty. Thank you for your informa- 
tion, mamma ; but neither of those two points 
is very novel or very conclusive. She really 
might have had sufficient consideration to 
send one her photograph,” repeated the 
young lady, impatiently. “ This uncertainty 
will drive me distracted ! ” 

“ Isn’t that five o’clock striking ? ” asked 
Mrs. Inglesby. “The train is due so soon 
now that it would hardly be worth while to 
go distracted, I think. Rose.” 

“ It is due at 6.10, I believe,” said 
Rose. 

This reflection sobered her, for she walked 
to the window and looked out silently on the 
broad street with its rows of green shade- 
trees, the golden sunshine streaming through 
them, and the long shadows thrown across. 
She made a pretty picture, standing by the 
window in the green dimness of its half-closed 
blinds, with the lace curtains all around her, 
and a hanging basket swinging just above her 
head — such a pretty picture that a gentleman, 
who at this moment came down the quiet 
street, paused suddenly at sight of it. He 
was a dark, slender man, of medium size, who, 
as he paused, took off his hat and spoke in 
the tone and with the manner of a familiar 
acquaintance. 

“ Good - evening. Miss Inglesby. What 
miracle have I to thank for the unexpected 
pleasure of seeing you ? It surely must have 
been a miracle to bring you down from your 
siesta at five o’clock on such an afternoon as 
this — the warmest of the season, everybody 
says.” 

“ Good - evening, Mr. Kennon,” returned 
Miss Inglesby, with a smile and a blush. 
“ You haven’t any miracle at all to thank for 
seeing me. I cut short my siesta unwillingly 
enough, I assure you ; and I only did so be- 
cause we are expecting my sister-in-law this 
afternoon.” 

“ Your sister-in-law ! ” he repeated, start- 
ing slightly, and, as it were, unconsciously. 

“ Yes, my sister-in-law. Is that a very 
disagreeable anticipation? You look as if 
you thought so.” 

“ Did I look so? Well, it is disagreeable 
so far — that I can’t ask permission to ring 
the door-bell and profit by your exemplary 
virtue.” 

“No, I am afraid you can’t. The train is 
due by this time, and no doubt they will be 


here very soon — more’s the pity ! ” added 
she, with a grimace. 

“Yes, the train is due,” said he, glancing 
at his watch ; “ but it will be some time be- 
fore your sister-in-law can arrive — fifteen 
minutes, at least. That gives me ten. I hope 
I am not detaining you from any thing more 
pleasant ? ” 

“ Oh, not at all,” answered Rose, quite 
deaf to various significant sounds that were 
proceeding from the part of the room where 
her mother sat. “ If you don’t mind stand- 
ing on the pavement, I am sure I don’t mind 
standing here. It’s rather entertaining, in 
fact.” 

“ Come out on the balcony, then, won’t 
you ? That Undine light is very becoming, 
but I should like to shake hands, and I can’t 
well manage that across the balcony and 
through the blinds.” 

“You will have to dispense with that 
gratification, I fear. I cannot come out on 
the balcony at this scorching hour of the day 
— (No, mamma — I have not an idea of going) 
— and I must say you look very comfortable 
where you are, Mr. Kennon.” 

“ I am very comfortable,” said Mr. Ken- 
non — which in truth was not remarkable, as 
he was leaning against a large elm, with his 
face to the window and his back to the tree, 
thus enjoying at his leisure the shade cast 
freely down upon him, and the pretty picture 
arranged before him. “ I am very comfort- 
able indeed ; and I will unite usefulness to 
comfort, .by letting you know as soon as the 
carriage containing your sister-in-law comes 
in sight. Does your brother accompany 
her ? ” 

“ My brother ! ” For an instant Rose 
opened her eyes. “ Oh, you are thinking of 
my other sister-in-law — my brother Robert’s 
wife. This is the widow of my brother who 
is dead — my poor brother Harry. She is 
travelling alone, and papa has gone down to 
the station to meet her. We have never 
seen Lor,” proceeded the young lady, waxing 
quite confidential. “ She and Harry met in 
Europe, and were married there, and went 
straight to Brazil, where he had a position as 
engineer; and” — her voice fell — “he died 
there. When his wife came back, she went 
to her own friends, and so, though it is three 
years since she returned, we have never seen 
her, and — 0 Mr. Kennon, we do wonder so 
much what she is like I” 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


117 


“ Do you ? ” said Mr. Kennon. “ I am a 
little surprised at that. Of course most wom- 
en have reason to be curious about another 
woman; but you need not fear a rival near 
the throne.” 

“ I am not sure about that,” said Rose, 
candidly. “Widows are very fascinating; 
and I think I have heard that she is a 
beauty.” 

“ Her beauty ought to be worn off by this 
time,” said Mr. Kennon, with the sneer that 
often disfigured his handsome mouth. “ Can 
a woman bury husbands ad libitum^ and show 
no sign of it ? If there is one popular be- 
lief more than another which fills me with 
disgust, it is the belief that widows have any 
attraction to men who do not prefer all their 
goods and chattels second-hand,” he went on, 
with a bitterness which surprised Rose, yet 
pleased her, too; though it would have waked 
the suspicion of a more worldly-wise woman. 
“ There is something about a widow that 
smacks of the charnel-house,” he continued. 
“ Either she loved her first husband, or she 
did not — in either case, who cares to be his 
successor ? ” 

“ Then I suppose the belle veuve of French 
comedy has no attraction to you ? ” said 
Rose, half archly, half shyly. 

He laughed — not pleasantly, by any 
means. 

“ If ever F make up my mind to marry 
one,” he said, “I shall order my wedding- 
coat from a pawnbroker’s. There would be 
an exquisite fitness in the association of 
things. But I think I see the carriage com- 
ing — so your curiosity with regard to this 
particular widow will soon be gratified. I 
hope she will prove every thing she should 
be, and I hope you will let me come to see 
you soon.” 

He lifted his hat and bowed. But Rose 
did not return the salutation. She had turned 
to tell her mother that the expected guest 
was near at hand ; and, when she turned back 
again, he was already walking rapidly away. 
She had meaiit to say something before he 
went — something that would bring him back 
soon — but it was too late now. The carriage 
was approaching, and, even while Mrs. Ingles- 
by was saying, “ You might really have some 
regard for my wishes. Rose, in the matter of 
encouraging that Mr. Kennon,” it drew up 
before the house. 

The two ladies went out at once to wel- 


come the stranger. As they reached the 
front door, they saw Colonel Inglesby assist- 
ing a tall, graceful woman in a long crape 
veil, and a long black cloak, from the car- 
riage. Rose’s heart gave a bound. “ A 
beautiful figure, at any rate,” she thought; 
“and still in widow’s weeds!” The next 
moment, there was the rush of reception and 
greeting — -hands clasped, kisses given, half- 
uttered words spoken, a few tears shed, per- 
haps, for this visit could not be other than sad 
in the thoughts and associations which it wak- 
ened, and, when all this subsided, the young 
widow was within her husband’s home. 

“ You would like to go to your own room at 
once, would you not, my dear ? ” asked Mrs. 
Inglesby, as they entered the hall. 

“ Thank you, yes. I am very tired,” the 
stranger answered, in a sweet voice. 

So she was borne away to the upper re- 
gions, while Rose — who was intensely curious 
to see that veiled face — found herself left to 
endure her curiosity as best she might. 

She did not endure it very well. She was 
impatient and unsettled, and she roamed rest- 
lessly about the drawing-room waiting for 
her mother to return, and quite unconscious 
that Mrs. Inglesby had come down-stairs and 
been absorbed into the dining-room, whence 
proceeded, ever and anon, that friendly clatter 
of dishes which speaks so confidently of 
coming cheer. John was a good servant, but 
rather stupid ; so his mistress, who was natu- 
rally anxious that, on the first day of the 
stranger’s arrival, every thing should be right 
and proper, had thought it best to go and 
superintend matters in person. Hence, Miss 
Inglesby fidgeted in the drawing-room quite 
alone; and hence, also, she went to the win- 
dow and stretched her neck to gaze up and 
down the street, in faint hope of seeing Mr. 
Kennon on the visible horizon. While she was 
thus engaged, the rustle of a dress sounded 
behind her, and a melodious voice said : 

“Have I drifted into the right room?” 
and, turning suddenly, she faced her sister-in- 
law. 

In a moment she saw what she was like, 
and in a moment, too, her heart, without 
rhyme or reason, sank down into her very 
shoes. “ Yes, this is the right room,” she 
said, “ and I am very glad to see you. Pray 
sit down.” Meanwhile, she thought, “ What 
a vain fool I was to wonder if she would be 
prettier than I am 1 ” In truth, Mrs. Henry 


118 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


Inglesby was a woman such as one does not 
see very often. As she stood in the soft, 
golden light, with her graceful figure, her 
fiowing dress of lustreless black silk, and the 
folds of sheer white crape at her neck and 
wrists, she looked so queenly and imposing 
that pretty, dainty Rose shrank into absolute 
insignificance before her. Then, what an ala- 
baster complexion ; what statuesque features ; 
what large, full eyes of the rare golden-brown 
tint ; what rich, heavy masses of magnificent 
golden-brown hair! Altogether, she was a 
woman whose beauty no one could deny, a 
woman born to lead hearts captive by right 
divine of her witching face, and a woman with 
a fascination quite independent of these per- 
sonal gifts, as Rose herself was soon forced 
to acknowledge. 

For, beginning with soft, sad remerabrances 
of the bright young engineer, who had been 
the link between them, Mrs. Inglesby soon 
won her way to the girl’s heart. Her man- 
ners were very sweet and gracious — a little 
too dignified, perhaps, for the taste of the 
present day, but very perfect, for all that; 
and very well calculated to w^ear away, by 
gentle degrees, the barriers of shyness and 
reserve. Though the dead “ Harry ” had been 
only Rose’s half-brother, she was very tender 
toward his memory; and< despite the beauty 
which at first had startled her, was very well 
disposed to like the wife of wdiom he had been 
so proud. The two were talking like old ac- 
quaiutances when Colonel Inglesby came in 
after a while — a little shaken from his ordi- 
nary calm, a little subdued in his ordinary 
manner ; for, though he had said nothing 
about it, this visit was a trial to him, recall- 
ing, as it did, the son who had been, of all the 
children, his favorite and pride. He was re- 
lieved when he saw how matters were pro- 
gressing, for Rose was an uncertain girl at 
all times, and in nothing more uncertain than 
her likes and dislikes. It had been a matter 
of doubt how she would receive the new sis- 
ter-in-law ; and, therefore, her father was re- 
lieved to see that friendly relations were al- 
ready established between them. Soon after 
his entrance Mrs. Inglesby appeared, and, 
presently, dinner was announced. 

The evening which followed, though a 
strictly domestic, w^as far from a dull one. 
The Inglesby house was, of all houses in Nor- 
thorpe, the most popular in a social way; 
and, though to-night not one of its usual vis- 


itors rang the door-bell, or dropped in for the 
“ half-minute ” that always lengthened into a 
halfhour, or probably several half-liours, no 
one missed them, or felt time tedious because 
of their absence. True, Rose looked once or 
twice wistfully toward the street, as a mascu- 
line step rang on the pavement, or a mascu- 
line voice floated through the window ; but 
she bore the unusual isolation very well, 
and even she acknowledged, when the even- 
ing w'as over, that the new sister-in-law was a 
singularly charming person. What the latter 
had said or done that was specially attractive 
nobody knew ; but that whatever she said or 
did had a grace of its own they all felt. Af- 
ter she had bidden them good-night, and re- 
tired to her chamber, they each looked at the 
chair where she had lately sat, and where the 
fragrance of her presence still lingered, and 
each expressed, in different ways, the same 
degree of admiration. 

“ Poor Harry 1 — poor fellow 1 ” said the 
colonel, rising and walking to and fro. “ It 
was even harder on him than I thought — to 
leave all his bright prospects in life, and such 
a wife, so soon. I have not seen as fine a 
woman — I don’t know when,” he went on, 
quite regardless that his wife and daughter 
were listening to him. “ I hope you will take 
some lessons from her. Rose. Her manners 
are perfect.” 

“ They are very good, papa,” said Rose, 
with a slight toss of her head; “but, as for 
their perfection, that’s all a matter of taste, 
you know. Some people might think my 
manners perfect, and then -I should be sorry 
that I had changed them for those of my sis- 
ter-in-law. She is as pretty as she w^ell can 
be, how’ever — don’t you think so, mamma? 
Oh, if I only had such a complexion, and such 
a nose, and such eyes, and, above all, such a 
figure, I should be happy — happier than I 
ever shall be again after seeing them in the 
possession of another woman, and that woman 
a widow 1 ” 

“Widows are usually considered very at- 
tractive,” said Mrs. Inglesby, in her quiet 
way. “ I remember, w^hen I was young, I 
used to be more afraid of them than of girls, 
a great deal. Alice is so lovely, too — I don’t 
wonder poor Harry used to rave about her. 
She won’t be a tvidow long — you may depend 
on that. Rose I ” 

“It don’t concern me one way or an- 
other,” said Rose, carelessly. “ I like her very 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


119 


much — a great deal better than I expected — 
and that is all. I believe I’ll go to bed. I’m 
a little sleepy and tired, though I haven’t the 
excuse of a journey, as Mrs. Inglesby had. 
By-the-way, I must make up my mind before 
to-morrow what I shall call her. ‘ Sister ’ is 
absurd, and I can’t say ‘ Alice.’ She is far 
too grand — I should much sooner think of 
saying ‘ your majesty.’ — Good-night, papa. I 
will practise manners, if you think 1 need im- 
provement so badly.” 

The spoiled child kissed her father, bade 
her mother good-night, and went her way up- 
stairs. When she entered her chamber, and 
closed the door, she walked straight to the 
toilet-table, turned up both jets of the gas, 
and looked at herself from head to foot in the 
large, swinging mirror. This careful survey 
lasted about ten minutes, then a satisfied 
smile came over her face, and she nodded 
complacently to the reflection smiling back at 
her. “You don’t lose so much by the com- 
parison, after all,” she said. “ And Kennon 
admires little women — he told me so himself.” 


CHAPTER II. 

La belle veuve^ as Rose inwardly styled her 
sister-in-law, made her appearance the next 
morning in a becoming trifle of a Marie 
Stuart breakfast-cap, of the sheerest white 
crape, which gave to her costume the last 
possible touch of refined elegance. “ Why 
did Providence ever see fit to make such a 
ravishing creature a widow ? ” was Miss In- 
glesby’s thought, as she watched the graceful 
entrance of the stranger, and exchanged a 
moderately affectionate greeting with her. 

“ Am I early or late ? ” asked the latter, 
in her rich, sweet voice — the voice of a born 
contralto. “ You did not mention the break- 
fast-hour last night, and I am always lazy on 
the least provocation.” 

“ You are early, as it chances,” said Rose, 
watching her with unconscious envy, and al- 
most wishing herself a widow, that she might 
be able to wear such an irresistible coif. 
“ Mamma is not down yet, and breakfast is 
not ready.” 

“ And are you always so early ? ” asked 
Mrs. Inglesby, glancing at a hat and veil near 
by, which had apparently just been laid aside. 

“ Not always, but I have been a little un- 
well this spring, and Dr. Rawdon advised a 


walk before breakfast, so I try it occasion 
ally. There is a very pleasant square near 
us, and it is always deserted early in the 
morning. One might practise gymnastics 
there with perfect impunity.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Mrs. Inglesby, smiling. 
“ I am rather fond of a constitutional my- 
self,” she went on. “ If you have no objec- 
tion, I think I will join you some morning.” 

“ I — of course I shall be very glad,” said 
Rose — but she stammered, and, despite her- 
self, looked unmistakably dismayed. 

This expression, quickly as it was ban- 
ished, did not escape her sister-in-law. The 
beautiful brown eyes gave one keen glance 
which Rose did not soon forget, and then, as 
a flush came over the delicate guelder-rose 
complexion of the girl, Mrs. Inglesby walked 
to one of the low French windows which 
overlooked a garden blooming with the royal 
beauty of May. 

“ What beautiful flowers you have ! ” she 
said. “ I suppose the dew is gone by this 
time, and one may venture out with impunity ? ” 

“Jackson, our gardener, is so careful to 
keep the walks clear of grass, that you need 
not fear any amount of dew,” said Rose, fol- 
lowing her, and unclosing the sash. 

They walked down the garden-paths to- 
gether; but, while Mrs. Inglesby was de- 
lighted with the dewy freshness and fra- 
grance of every thing around, and while she 
stopped continually to admire or gather some 
tempting bud or half-blown blossom. Rose 
seemed strangely indifferent to the winsome 
charm of these bright darlings of the spring. 
She sauntered listlessly along, and looked so 
often in the direction of a house near by — a 
large, handsome, old-fashioned house, set in 
a large, old-fashioned garden, which was di- 
vided by a high wall from their own — that at 
last her sister-in-law remarked the fact. 

“ Who is your next-door neighbor ? ” she 
asked. “ Being so near, you ought to be so- 
ciable.” 

“We have no next-door neighbor,” an- 
swered Rose, a little shortly. “ The house is 
unoccupied.” 

Mrs. Inglesby stopped in the act of pull- 
ing a Noisette bud, and looked at the house 
in question. For an unoccupied dwelling it 
certainly presented a strange appearance just 
then — blinds were open, windows were raised, 
stir and movement were plainly visible within. 
As she looked, a gentleman showed himself 


120 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


at one of the open windows, and then hastily 
vanished. 

“ If your house is not occupied, it must 
be haunted,” said she, turning to Rose with a 
smile. 

But Rose was frowning as she gazed in 
the same direction, and her companion, whom 
nothing escaped, saw that one tiny foot was 
beating nervously on the gravel-path. 

“The new owner must have come,” an- 
swered she, almost bitterly. “ When I said 
it was not occupied, I meant that the old man 
who used to live there is dead, and that his 
nephew, who inherits the place, had not ar- 
rived.” 

“ So it has changed hands,” said Mrs. In- 
glesby, looking with considerable interest at 
the stately house over which the bright May 
sunshine slanted as lovingly and gayly as if 
no coffin had ever passed across the thresh- 
old. “ I think I should hate to leave such a 
home. What was the name of the old man 
of whom you speak ? ” 

“ He was an old wretch,” said Rose, vin- 
dictively, “ and his name was Devereux.” 

More than this meagre information Mrs. 
Inglesby did not receive. As Rose uttered 
the last word, there came through the open 
windows the clear, ringing sound of the 
breakfast-bell, and the two ladies retraced 
their steps to the house. 

The day passed very quietly, and so, like- 
wise, did the evening. But again no visitors 
dropped in ; and it really seemed as if the 
curiosity of Northorpe w^as to be restrained 
in simply heroic degree. This evening, how- 
ever, Rose showed unmistakable signs of 
ennui. She strolled listlessly to and fro, 
haunted the neighborhood of the front win- 
dows, started whenever there was a step on 
the pavement near the door, and finally com- 
mitted the enormity of an undisguised yawn. 
Somewhat ashamed of this last achievement, 
she went to the piano ; but, in the midst of 
her very first song, there came a sharp peal 
of the door-bell that made her start and turn. 
A moment later John passed through the hall 
to answer the summons, and Mrs. Henry In- 
glesby, who was listening, with exemplary 
patience, to her mother-in-law’s placid stream 
of small-talk, looked up with a little interest 
in the interruption. As she looked up, her 
eye chanced to fall on Rose, and something 
in the girl’s face attracted her attention. 
She was listening eagerly — listening with lips 


parted and color varying — to the sounds at 
the front-door ; to John fumbling an instant 
or two at the handle before turning it, and to 
a voice — a round, jovial voice — inquiring if. 
Colonel Inglesby and the ladies were at home. 
The bright brown eyes that were watching it 
saw a swift flush of vexation come over the 
listening face, and the lips meet only to be 
impatiently bitten. “ Poor child ! ” thought 
the elder and more experienced woman, “ she 
is looking for some man who has not 
come.” 

Somebody had come, however; for, be- 
sides the voice aforesaid, a hat and stick were 
audibly deposited in the hall, and a stout old 
gentleman, in a wig, soon made his appearance 
at the open door. 

He was greeted cordially by the colonel 
as “ Brent,” and was plainly an intimate friend, 
from his own greetings to Mrs. Inglesby and 
Rose. 

When he was presented to the young 
stranger, he at once claimed the privilege of 
shaking hands, on the score of having been 
a life-long friend of her husband and her hus- 
band’s family. 

The bustle of reception being over, and 
all due compliments paid, he sat himself down 
and plunged at once into social topics, in 
which Rose alone seemed to take no interest. 
While he talked at one end of the room, she 
went on playing at the other, and it was not 
until the name of Kennon caught her ear that 
she took her hands from the keys and turned 
round. 

“ What was that, Mr. Brent ? ” she asked, 
quickly. “ Did you say that Mr. Kennon has 
left town ? ” 

“ I said he intended to leave,” said Mr. 
Brent, while Mrs. Inglesby exchanged a quick 
glance with her husband. “ I met him on the 
street to-day, and he told me that he was off* 
— to be gone a week, I think he said. But I 
rather incline to think ” — here the old gen- 
tleman looked very significant — “ that he has 
gone for good.” 

“ Why ? ” demanded Rose, with ill-re- 
strained eagerness. 

Mr. Brent glanced round at his audience 
before he tapped his snulfbox gently, and an- 
swered, with a smile, “ Because Philip Deve- 
reux has arrived.” 

To say that this item of news made a sen- 
sation would be to state an extreme fact as 
mildly as possible. Whoever Mr. Philip 




J 


Down came the music-book on the piano-keys with a crash, and Miss Inglesby rose to address the company. 






MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


121 


Devereux might be, it at least was evident 
that his arrival in Northorpe was a matter of 
importance. 

Tbe colonel said: “Bless my soul! you 
don’t say so ? ” Mrs. Inglesby dropped her 
crochet-work and said : “ Dear me 1 is it pos- 
sible ? ” while Rose, turning first red and then 
pale, uttered never a word. 

“ Devereux 1 ” said Mrs. Henry Inglesby, 
speaking quietly in the pause which ensued. 
“ Is not that the name of the person who lives 
next door ? ” 

“ It was the name of the person who lived 
next door,” said Mr. Brent, “ and — yes, it is 
the name of the person who does live next 
door. Mr. Devereux, the old gentleman — a 
fine old fellow he was, too — eh, Inglesby ? — 
is dead ; but his nephew, who succeeds to 
the property, and who, I was just saying, has 
arrived in Northorpe, is named Devereux 
also.” 

“ It is a good thing that the old name 
won’t die out among us,” said Colonel In- 
glesby, straightening himself back in his 
chair. 

“I thought I noticed a great commotion 
of house-cleaning over there to-day,” said 
Mrs. Inglesby, in her mild way ; “ but it 
really did not occur to me that Philip Deve- 
reux had arrived. — Dear me, colonel, you 
must call on him at once. We were such 
good friends with old Mr. Devereux ; and you 
remember how he used to come sociably 
through the garden of an evening to play 
whist with us ? ” 

“ I shouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Philip 
Devereux learned to be sociable in the same 
way — to play something besides whist, per- 
haps,” said Mr. Brent, with a laugh and a 
glance at Rose, both of which Rose treated 
with silent disdain. 

“Odious old wretch 1” she thought to 
herself ; but she would not gratify him by 
deigning to resent the point of his feeble lit- 
tle joke. 

“ Of course he has come to take posses- 
sion of the property,” said Mrs. Inglesby, 
after a minute. “ But will he — a young man 
and a bachelor — live in that rambling old 
house, Mr. Brent ? ” 

“ He needn’t always be a bachelor, you 
know, my dear madam,” answered Mr. Brent, 
with another “odious” chuckle. “There’ll 
be caps enough pulled for him among the 
girls of Northorpe, you may be sure — that is. 


if he stays long enough to give them x fair 
chance.” 

“ He may sell the real estate, ” hazarded 
the colonel. “Unless he does mean to marry 
and settle down, such a young man would 
scarcely care for that kind of property.” 

“ That is more than I can tell you,” said 
Mr. Brent. “ Nobody knows — I doubt even if 
he knows himself — his final intentions about 
the property. A very fine property,” pur- 
sued he, “ and a very fine young man to 
inherit it. No comparison between him and 
a reckless adventurer like Kennon, eh ? ” 

Before the colonel could give the assent 
which was plainly expected, down came a mu- 
sic-book on the piano-keys with a crash, and 
Miss Inglesby rose to address the company. 

“ That is the way of the world 1 ” she 
cried, with a ring of genuine indignation in 
her voice. “ Everybody is always against the 
unfortunate, and — and always ready to call 
them names. I don’t suppose that Mr. Ken- 
non is any more of an adventurer than all 
poor men are obliged to be ; and, if he had 
obtained the fortune, Mr. Brent, you would 
say of him exactly what you now say of 
Mr. Devereux ! ” 

There was quite a pause after this. No- 
body answered the impetuous girl. The 
three old people looked at each other, while 
Rose looked at them ; and, if anybody had 
glanced aside at Mrs. Henry Inglesby, he 
would have seen that she was smiling a 
peculiar sort of smile to herself as she bent 
her face down over a photograph-album which 
she had taken up. 

It was Mr. Brent who spoke first, indul- 
gently and kindly, as one might speak to a 
child* 

“That’s hardly a fair conclusion. Rose, 
when I say of Kennon only what every- 
body said long before his grandfather’s death, 
and before the suit about the property was 
decided. Everybody knows, too, that he has 
only himself to thank that his cousin inherits 
the estate. Mr. Devereux would never have 
disinherited his grandson for his nephew if 
he had not had good reason for it.” 

“ His mind was poisoned against Mr. 
Kennon,” said Rose, with the promptness of 
one who has learned a lesson and knows it 
by heart. 

“Nobody who knew him is likely to credit 
that,” answered the old gentleman, with a 
shrug. “ There never was a juster man, or a 


122 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


man less likely to be deceived. It must have 
gone hard with him when he was obliged to 
leave the bulk of his fortune away from his 
own grandson ; but I doubt if anybody who 
knows any thing about Laurence Kennon 
could blame him.” 

He spoke the last words gravely ; t hen, 
before Rose could reply, turned to the colonel 
and proposed a game of whist. 

“We are four,” he said, “even if Mrs. 
Inglesby ” — glancing at the stately young 
widow — “ does not play.” 

As it chanced, however, Mrs. Inglesby did 
play, and willingly agreed to take a hand. 

So the card-table was brought forward, 
and the quartet sat down — Colonel Inglesby 
claiming his daughter-in-law as partner, and 
bidding Rose give them some music as ac- 
companiment. 

The girl obeyed, playing waltzes, galops, 
and the like, for some time ; but at last the 
gay strains ceased, and, when her father 
looked up at the close of a hard-fought game, 
the piano-stool was vacant, and the musician 
gone. 

Several days went by, and the tide of 
Northorpe society flowed in again upon the 
Inglesby family, receiving, indeed, an unusual 
impetus from Northorpe curiosity to see the 
beautiful young widow, concerning whom 
many good judges of beauty had already be- 
gun to rave. 

“ How does Rose like a rival so near the 
throne ? ” people asked each other, shrugging 
their shoulders ; but as yet nobody could say 
that Rose showed any signs of uneasiness or 
jealousy. 

It was rather providential, from a social 
point of view, that just in this languid sum- 
mer weather, two sensations came to Nor- 
thorpe at the same time — i. e., Mrs. Inglesby 
and Mr. Devereux. 

According to the spirit of the gallant 
French proverb, we have given precedence to 
the lady ; but the popular mind arranged the 
matter just the other way. 

During these days Mr. Devereux was the 
theme of every visitor who came in state, or 
dropped in sociably at the Inglesby house. 

“ I am sick of his very name,” Rose de- 
clared, passionately ; while even her sister-in- 
law, who said nothing, began to look a little 
weary when the threadbare subject was again, 
and yet again, lugged to the front of conver- 
sation. 


' But Mrs. Inglesby did not weary of it, 
and seemed to feel as much interest as the 
rest of Northorpe in penetrating the shell of 
reserve which, provokingly enough, Mr. Deve- 
reux had seen fit to draw around himself. He 
mingled freely enough with men, but to ladies 
he was an enigma who deliberately avoided 
their society. 

“ Very pleasant fellow, indeed, but shy as 
a girl,” was the verdict of all the gentlemen 
who had called on him and been received 
with courteous cordiality ; but the invitations 
which society showered upon him had so far 
been persistently declined. It was of no use 
at all to worship the rising sun when he ob- 
stinately refused to let his rays shine upon 
them. 

“ Laurence Kennon would have done bet- 
ter than that'"' people said, indignantly ; which 
was going very far indeed, since, as a general 
rule, Northorpe held Laurence Kennon in 
holy horror. 

At last, however, relief came to the af- 
flicted community. 

A certain Mrs. Reynolds, who was the ac- 
knowledged leader of fashion in Northorpe, 
returned from a visit of some weeks in a 
neighboring town, and announced her inten- 
tion of storming Mr. Devereux’s castle in 
person. 

“ His mother was a dear friend of mine,” 
said this lady — who belonged to that benevo- 
lent class who have “ dear friends ” in every 
direction — “ and I mean to bring her son for- 
ward. It will never do to let him make a 
hermit of himself like this. Shy men need 
to be forced into society. I shall give a din- 
ner next Thursday, and take no denial with re- 
gard to his appearance.” 

This gratifying intelligence spread like 
wild-fire through society ; and, when the in- 
vitations to dinner appeared in due form, it 
threw all dinner-going Northorpe into a twit- 
ter of excitement, for, knowing their leader, 
they knew well that the matter — the Devereux 
appearance, that is — was an accomplished 
fact. 

It was during this momentous time that 
Mrs. Henry Inglesby (whom, to cut a trouble- 
some title short, we shall hereafter call Alice) 
was alone one morning in her room, when 
there came a slight, hesitating knock at the 
door. When she said “ Come in,” the door 
slowly opened, and her mother-in-law stood 
on the threshold. 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


123 


“ Excuse me, my dear,” she said, hurried- 
ly, “but here is a note which I brought for 
you to read. I should not have disturbed you, 
only it must be answered at once.” 

She came in, and, closing the door behind 
her, extended an open note. Alice received 
it, and, glancing over the few lines which it 
contained, found that it was an invitation to 
the dinner, from Mrs. Reynolds, who had 
called on herself the preceding day. 

“ This is for you to decide,” she said, after 
a minute. “ My decision will depend entirely 
on yours. Do you mean to go ? ” 

“ My dear, lhat is exactly what I came to 
see you about,” said Mrs. Inglesby, solemnly, 
whereupon she sat down and heaved a sigh. 
“ Rose is the best girl in the world,” she went 
on, “ but she is very wilful sometimes — so 
wilful that neither her father nor myself can 
do any thing with her. You would scarcely 
believe that, for half an hour, I have been 
trying to induce her to accept this invitation, 
and that she absolutely declares she will not 
do so ! ” 

She paused after this statement ; but 
Alice’s only reply was a slight arch of the 
eyebrows. She had been long enough in the 
Inglesby household to find no difficulty what- 
ever about crediting the assertion. 

“ It is quite true,” said Mrs. Inglesby, in 
reply to this little token of attention. “Now, 
for a particular reason, I am very anxious 
that she should accept it, and — and — but, my 
dear, I may speak to you in confidence, may 
I not ? Well ” — when Alice had assured her 
that she might — “the truth is, that a gentle- 
man whom I desire very much that she should 
meet is to be at this dinner ; and, if she does 
not go, she will lose the best opportunity of 
attracting his attention. Other girls will be 
there, you know ; and, though Rose is the 
belle of Northorpe, still, my dear, there’s 
nothing like being first in the field, especially 
when a young man is a stranger in a strange 
place.” 

“ I suppose the gentleman is Mr. Deve- 
reux ? ” said Alice, who had not listened for 
nothing to all Northorpe’s stream of conver- 
sation. 

“ Yes, it is Mr. Devereux,” said Mrs. In- 
glesby, blushing a little. “ But,” she went 
on, hurriedly, “ I must not let you think that 
it is only because he has inherited a fortune 
that I want Rose to attract him. He is a 
young man of whom everybody speaks well,” 


said the mother, looking pathetically into the 
beautiful eyes bent on her. “ He is steady 
and well-principled, and he would make a 
good husband for Rose ; while, oh, my dear, 
my heart aches to think she may be led away 
to marry a man who is none of these things ! ” 

“ Let us hope not,” said Alice, touched by 
the tone of these last few words. Then her 
voice grew quiet and indifferent again, as she 
added : “ I suppose you mean that she may 
be led away to marry Mr. Kennon V ” 

“Yes, I mean that,” said Mrs. Inglesby, 
too full of her subject to wonder at this 
knowledge of it in a stranger. “ Rose seems 
infatuated about him, while he — my dear, I 
am confident that he is nothing but a fortune- 
hunter, who, because she is an heiress — my 
fortune was all settled on her, you know — 
thinks he will be doing well to marry her.” 

“ Some men who are fortune-hunters make 
tolerably good husbands,” said Alice, in a 
cold, abstracted way. 

“ But this man is a wretch ! ” said Mrs. 
Inglesby, indignantly. “You have no idea 
what he is. Why, he acted so badly that his 
grandfather disinherited him, and left his es- 
tate to Mr. Devereux. And that man for my 
Rose ! I — I had almost rather see her in her 
grave.” 

“ Think twice about that,” said Alice, 
quietly. “ Every thiqg in the world leaves 
room for hope, excepting death, you know. 
I see your difficulty, and I appreciate your 
confidence. Tell me how I can help you, and 
I will do it.” 

In her own way, Mrs. Inglesby told her, 
and, after a good deal of questioning, Alice 
arrived at a knowledge of the service she was 
requested to render. In brief, it was this — 
that the invitation of Mrs. Reynolds should 
be accepted by herself, but that Mrs. Ingles- 
by should decline going — an attack of rheu- 
matism from which the colonel was suffering 
giving her a convenient excuse for remaining 
at home. In this case. Rose was placed in an 
awkward dilemma. Either she must be guilty 
of the rudeness of allowing her sister-in-law 
to make a first appearance in Northorpe so- 
ciety quite alone, or she must change her 
mind and accept the invitation. Alice having 
given her consent, Mrs. Inglesby went to place 
the matter before the young insurgent, and 
soon returned with a submission in due form. 
The invitation was, therefore, accepted ; and, 
the principal points being settled, all other 


124 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


issues were allowed to rest until Thursday — 
the day of the dinner — should arrive. 


CHAPTER III. 

When Thursday at last arrived, it brought 
quite an assemblage of guests into Mrs. Rey- 
nolds’s drawing-room. Northqrpe was not 
only a flourishing place, but it was also an 
extremely fashionable place, and, as has been 
said before, of all the fashion in Northorpe 
Mrs. Reynolds was the acknowledged leader. 
It cannot be saying too much to hazard the 
assertion that, on the Thursday in question, 
this lady was a very happy woman. She was 
not only giving a dinner, such as no one in 
Northorpe besides herself could give, but she 
had secured for this dinner the persons of all 
others concerning whom Northorpe was most 
full of curious speculation. Then, the beau- 
tiful Mrs. Inglesby would also make her first 
appearance in public on this occasion ; and, 
if Mrs. Reynolds had been a euchre-player, 
she would certainly have said that, if Mr. 
Devereux was her right bower, Mrs. Inglesby 
was her left. 

The gentleman was the first on the field 
of action, and was made warmly welcome by 
Mrs. Reynolds. When he was presented to 
the assembled guests, they all expressed their 
pleasure in extremely flattering terms ; but 
they all acknowledged to themselves that Mr. 
Devereux was by no means so distinguished 
in appearance as they had been induced to 
expect — why, it is hard to say — that he would 
be. It is true that he was tall, and that he 
had a well-built figure — two trump-cards in 
the popular estimation of good looks — but his 
manners were reserved in the extreme, and 
his face was of that excessive fairness which, 
blotting out all tints, leaves only the beauty 
of feature and expression. In this case, the 
features were very indifferent, and the ex- 
pression, like the manner, very reserved. A 
physiognomist, looking at the face, might 
have seen that it would light up well, that the 
gray eyes would grow luminous under ex- 
citement, and the quiet mouth break into 
pleasant smiles. But people in general 
thought the countenance dull as well as 
plain; and, if its owner had not been a per- 
son of importance, would not have hesitated 
to express this opinion. He gave them good 
opportunity to scrutinize his appearance ; for, 


instead of devoting himself to the entertain- 
ment of some of the ladies who were moment- 
ly growing more numerous, he kept his place 
by Mrs. Reynolds’s chair, leaning against one 
corner of the mantel, eying the gay company 
with the gaze of a contemplative recluse, and 
looking, as more than one young lady de- 
clared, “ the very picture of a diffident man.” 

Suddenly, however, there arose a diversion 
— suddenly, for a moment, even Mr. Devereux 
was forgotten. At the door there was a stir, 
in the room there fell a pause, and while 
everybody was gazing eagerly around. Rose 
Inglesby and her stately sister-in-law swept 
up the long drawing-room. 

Mrs. Reynolds met them half-way with 
great empr easement^ and, while her greetings 
were made, a whisper of irrepressible ad- 
miration was passing from group to group. 
“ Is she not superb ? ” “ How dazzling she 
looks to-night ! ” “ That'is my idea of a beau- 
tiful woman 1 ” “ What graceful manners ! ” 
etc., etc. — men and women rivalling each 
other in open, honest praise. For once, no- 
body even noticed Rose. Pretty as she was 
looking, charmingly as she was dressed, the 
belle of Northorpe obtained scarcely a glance 
in the scene of her own triumphs and in 
the midst of her own vassals. No eye left 
Mrs. Inglesby to dwell on the dainty, blue- 
robed girl beside her. “ Rose looks very nice- 
ly,” was all that people said ; and they only 
said that after a time, with a start of recollec- 
tion. 

If Mr. Devereux made only a questionable 
success, Mrs. Inglesby created a sensation. 
Mrs. Reynolds was fairly besieged for intro- 
ductions ; and before long the young widow’s 
gracious manners had completed what her 
beauty had begun. Every woman in the 
room was charmed, and every man was at her 
feet. The finishing touch to this success was 
given when the duty of taking her in to din- 
ner devolved on Mr. Devereux ; and, having 
thus safely paired off her lions, Mrs. Reynolds 
felt the ease and repose of a well-satisfied 
conscience. 

At first Alice fell into the common error 
of taking Mr. Devereux’s quietness for stu 
pidity, and pitching the tone of her conversa 
tion accordingly. But she was too clever a 
woman not to learn better than this from his 
first remark, and in a few minutes she had 
drawn him out sufficiently to see that his re- 
serve was not unconquerable, nor his quiet- 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


125 


ness of that troublesome kind which degen- 
erates into heaviness. He was a cultivated 
man himself, but it had been his misfortune 
to know very little of the society of cultivated 
people ; so, a woman who w'as young and 
beautiful, with sense enough to meet him on 
his own ground, and lightness enough to lend 
grace to the dullest themes, was a phenome- 
non to which he bowed at once. Befoi’e din- 
ner was over, Rose saw how matters were 
drifting. And, though she had angrily re- 
pelled the idea of attracting Mr. Devereux, 
and had even gone so far as to declare that 
she would have nothing whatever to say to 
him, she felt a throb of genuine disappoint- 
ment that she was not to have the opportunity 
of showing that she did not care for the at- 
tentions of this desirable cavalier. 

Before the evening was over, everybody 
saw that Mr. Devereux was quite captivated 
by the beautiful widow. He did not abso- 
lutely spend the whole time at her side ; but, 
whenever he was with anybody else, he re- 
lapsed into his usual reserve and silence, 
proving such a very unsatisfactory companion 
that several young ladies were reduced to the 
verge of despair by a total exhaustion of their 
conversational ideas. It was only when he 
was again under the influence of Mrs. Ingles- 
by, that he revived and became once more a 
genial and pleasant companion. Of course 
there was but one explanation for a state of 
affairs like this ; and that explanation the 
company in Mrs. Reynolds’s drawing-room 
were not slow to give. “ Your handsome 
sister-in-law has accomplished what all the 
young ladies in Northorpe promised them- 
selves the pleasure of doing,” said an old 
lady to Rose ; and Rose made the most fool- 
ish speech in the world when she answered: 
“ I beg you will make one exception when you 
speak of the young ladies of Northorpe, Mrs. 
Holmes, /have neither promised myself the 
pleasure, nor felt any desire to attract Mr. 
Devereux.” “ Oh, my dear, you can’t sup- 
pose that I was thinking of you,” said Mrs. 
Holmes, apologetically. And in truth she 
had not been thinking of Rose at all, know- 
ing: that she was an heiress, and therefore 
quite able to please herself in a matrimonial 
way. But, after this speech, her eyes were 
suddenly opened. Soon everybody in the 
room knew that “ Rose Inglesby was ready 
to bite off her sister-in-law’s head because she 
had secured Mr. Devereux.” 


Great was Mrs. Inglesby’s dismay when 
she heard how matters had gone on that 
momentous evening. Too late she recognized 
her own folly, too late she felt that she would 
have given any thing to undo her own work. 
It is the highest compliment to the good 
lady’s simplicity to say that such a fear as 
this had never entered her head. Rose, in 
her eyes, was invincible, and she had boldly 
thrown Rose in juxtaposition with a woman 
whom any ordinary mother would have avoid- 
ed as men avoid the plague — a woman of 
beauty so remarkable, of attractions so great, 
that no girl could safely have encountered 
her as a rival. When Rose made her mali- 
cious report of how the fortunes of the night 
had gone, Mrs. Inglesby could freely have 
choked herself, if choking herself would at 
all have mended matters. But, as that was 
out of the question, she could only think, 
“ Perhaps he will change his mind when he 
sees Rose by daylight.” 

The fallacy of this hope was soon demon- 
strated. Two days later, Mr. Devereux called 
— supported by the liberal aid and counte- 
nance of Mrs. Reynolds — saw Rose by day- 
light, and barely said six commonplace, civil 
words to her. It is impossible to be very 
devoted in the course of a ceremonious morn- 
ing call ; but, as much as was possible, he de- 
voted himself to Alice. His eyes followed 
her, his whole attention was engrossed by 
her ; and, when he left, Mrs. Inglesby was 
justifled in her despairing thought — “ It is 
all over. That dreadful Kennon is inevita- 
ble.” 

A week passed ; another week, followed, 
and still the dreadful Kennon had not made 
his appearance. Some people smiled, and 
said he would not come back at all, that he 
had no desire to see his cousin basking in 
the prosperity which might have been his 
own, and that he had quietly taken himself 
off the scene. Others thought differently ; 
and among the latter was Miss Inglesby. 
Rose kept her opinion to herself; but, in her 
own mind, she was firmly persuaded that 
Kennon would return. That fund of vanity, 
which often stands a woman in good stead, 
assured her that he would come back, if only 
for the farewell that had not been said, for 
the last words that had not been spoken. 
“He might leave Northorpe in this ungra- 
cious way, but he never would leave wj«,” she 
thought, considering the while what a pleas- 


126 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTEK-IN -LAW. 


ure it would be to show him that she at least 
did not court Mr. Devereux’s society, nor de- 
sire his attentions. True, it would be several 
degrees better if she could show him that 
these attentions had been at her command, 
and that she had declined them ; but, since 
this was impossible, she was fain to console 
herself with the thought that it was at least 
the more dignified position never to have re- 
ceived them — never, as she flattered herself, 
to have appeared conscious of Mr. Devereux’s 
existence. 

This dignified pose, however, became 
rather trying and awkward, as time went on, 
and, the ice having once been broken, Mr. 
Devereux found his way very frequently into 
the Inglesby circle. At first he came like 
every other visitor, in orthodox and formal 
fashion, through the front-door ; but before 
long he discovered that a short cut through 
the garden was much more convenient, and 
that it was very pleasant indeed to drop into a 
sort of ami de la maison place in the bowery 
drawing-room, full of the scent of roses, the 
graeeful presence of women, music now and 
then, bright smiles and social ease always. 
Despite her bitter disappointment, Mrs. In- 
glesby could not help liking the young man. 
He was so quiet, so unobtrusive, so thorough- 
ly refined, so genial, when he once fairly 
thawed. “ Oh, if he would only fall in love 
with Kose ! ” she said to her husband. But, 
provokingly enough, the colonel seemed ex- 
cellently well satisfied with matters as they 
were. 

“ He’s a trifle too grave and dignified for 
a butterfly like Rose,” he said. “ I think he 
shows his sense and his taste in ehoosing 
Alice. She’s a grand creature, and, by 
George ! any man might be proud to win her. 
There is nothing I should like better than to 
see her settled with us for life — just over the 
way, in that fine old Devereux house, too ! ” 

“ The house where I have always hoped 
to see Rose ! ” said Mrs. Inglesby, in a tone 
of exasperation. 

It was trying to the poor woman, beyond 
doubt — and the more trying because she had 
no sympathy from anybody, unless, indeed 
(as she often imagined), there was sympathy 
in Alice’s large, golden-brown eyes. Mr. 
Devereux’s devotion to the fair, young wid- 
ow became, in a short time, ^ exceedingly 
manifest, but it was impossible for the most 
carping tongue in Northorpe to say that she 


“ encouraged ” him. Neither did she repel his 
attentions. The gentle stateliness, the ab- 
solutely perfect courtesy of her manner, was 
the same to him as to every one else — a trifle 
warmer, perhaps, because of the familiar po- 
sition which he had gained, and also because 
she liked him sincerely. 

Rose, on her part, could not help feeling a 
little sore about the unconscious yet most 
successful rivalry of her sister-in-law. Every- 
body in Northorpe was raving over “ that 
beautiful Mrs. Inglesby,” and Rose would not 
have been human if she had not felt that it 
was a little hard. Her own friends, her own 
admirers, her own vassals, were offering their 
incense at another shrine before her very 
face. “I can’t see why a woman should not 
be satisfied with having had one husband ! ” 
thought the girl, resentfully, as she watched 
some of these scenes of homage, “/think 
widows ought to shut themselves up in con- 
vents, or spend their lives doing good to the 
poor, instead of looking ravishingly lovely in 
black silk and white crape, and Marie-Stuart 
caps, to — to turn silly people’s heads!” 

It was a matter of satisfaction during this 
time that Kennon did not swell the number 
of these silly people. Often when Rose was 
worn out with the manner in which every- 
body chanted the praises of her sister-in-law, 
there was a very great and sensible satisfac- 
tion in recalling those bitter words concern- 
ing widows which Kennon had spoken when 
she saw him last. As was said at the time, 
the girl was not enough of a woman of the 
world to suspect what might underlie this 
bitterness. She only smiled to herself as she 
thought there was no fear that he would ever 
swell the new beauty’s train ! She might en- 
snare the rich cousin, but the poor one could 
be trusted to withstand her fascinations. 

It was about this time that Mr. Devereux 
came to Mrs. Inglesby one day and asked if 
she would be kind enough to do the honors 
of an entertainment which he had thoughts 
of giving. “ It is not a pleasant thing to do,” 
he said ; “ but I have been very hospitably 
received in Northorpe, and a return is only 
courteous. Besides, since I intend to live 
here, I — perhaps I should begin to cultivate 
society a little.” Mrs. Inglesby agreed that 
this was entirely right, and, smothering a 
sigh, asked what kind of entertainment he 
wished to give. 

“ I leave all that to you,” said he, looking 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


127 


a little puzzled ; “ but I thought of a dinner, 
and a — a dance, perhaps, in the evening.” 

“ That is just the thing,” said Mrs. Ingles- 
by ; “ but you must not ask me to do the 
honors of the occasion. You must go to Mrs. 
Reynolds. She would be mortally offended 
if you did not ask her ; and she has so much 
taste that, if you give her carte blanche^ she 
will arrange something very charming for 
you.” 

“But I would rather you managed the af- 
fair,” said the young man, simply. 

She shook her head, laughing. 

“ I have too much regard for your inter- 
est to do it,” she said. “ I could arrange 
the domestic part of your entertainment — 
and I will, give you any assistance in my 
power — but, for the social part, you need 
somebody like Mrs. Reynolds.” 

“Won’t you plead for me?” said he, 
turning to Alice and Rose. “ Mrs. Reynolds 
will simply extinguish me.” 

But he found that there was no appeal. 
Everybody decided against him, and said that 
Mrs. Reynolds was the only person for the 
occasion ; so, he was forced to submit, and, 
with what grace he could muster, go and lay 
his petition before that social sovereign. 

It Was very graciously received and 
granted. All was grist, in the social way, 
that came to Mrs. Reynolds’s mill ; and soon 
Northorpe rang with the anticipated fHe^ and 
the splendor of the preparations which were 
in progress at the Devereux house. For the 
space of an entire fortnight every thing with- 
in the staid old mansion was turned upside 
down in the most complete and exasperating 
manner. Sounds of hammering resounded 
all over the neighborhood. Curtains, car- 
pets, furniture, all were renovated and changed. 
Having obtained entrance into the house, 
Mrs. Reynolds found it delightful to give her 
taste (which was certainly excellent, though 
rather extravagant) full rein for once. Par- 
titions were knocked down, and partitions 
were put up — the quiet old rooms scarcely 
knew themselves in their bright, new guise. 

As for Devereux, having called down the 
infliction upon his own head, he felt that 
there was no hope of redress, no refuge but 
submission. He might, however, have igno- 
miniously fled, or ended his existence with 
prussic acid, if he had not possessed the 
quiet retreat of the Inglesby house, and the 
Inglesby garden. But, coming over in the 


dewy softness of the summer evening, and 
pacing by Alice’s side up and down the green 
paths, with the fragrant roses blooming all 
around, the stars faintly gleaming into sight, 
and a mocking - bird singing a sweet love- 
song in the jasmine-hedge, he could almost 
forget his troubles, he could regard carpen- 
ters and upholsterers without enmity, he 
could even cover with the mantle of Chris- 
tian charity the whole race of “ society-lead- 
ers.” 

When at last the day of trial came, he 
girded himself up like a soldier going to 
battle, and really acquitted himself so well 
that he surprised everybody. Alice, in espe- 
cial, was charmed with his bearing — its quiet 
dignity and graceful courtesy. 

“ You don’t know what credit you have 
done yourself,” she said to him with a smile, 
when he came to her after dinner. 

“ You don’t know what agonies of shyness 
I have endured,” he answered. 

“And conquered,” she added, with a 
glance of approbation that would have repaid 
him for any thing. 

“ You are very good to say so,” he replied, 
gratefully. “ But, since duty is over, pleasure 
ought to follow. Will you let me name my 
reward, and — ^give it to me ? ” 

“ You are at liberty to name it, of course j 
but how can I give it to you ? ” 

She looked at him so kindly as she ut- 
tered the last words, that he did not lapse 
into the diffidence with which a cold or a 
flippant reply would assuredly have over- 
whelmed him. 

“ I have a friend who is an artist at Dus- 
seldorf,” he said, “ and by my request he sent 
me several paintings, which I have received 
within the last few days. They all have 
great merit ; but one, in especial, I should 
like to show you. It is an exquisite bit of 
Thuringian landscape. I have hung it in the 
library for the present. If you would come 
and let me show it to you — ” 

“So it is a pleasure you mean to give 
me,” she said. “ I thought it was to be the 
other way. But, of course, I shall be very 
glad to come.” 

By special stipulation, the library had not 
been included in the transformation which 
the rest of the house had undergone. About 
it, therefore, still hung the mellow aroma of 
age. It looked very inviting when they en- 
tered — with its books and pictures, and white 


128 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTEK-IN-LAW. 


busts gleaming in the shaded lamplight. 
The windows were all set wide open to the 
soft summer night, while the fragrance of 
roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle, was wafted 
in on the night breeze, and seemed to fill 
every corner of the room. 

Removing the shade from one of the lamps, 
Devereux held it up so that she could see 
the picture of which he had spoken. She 
had no special prepossession toward art, but 
her culture had been too thorough for her 
not to cordially recognize and fully appreciate 
excellence in this respect. She praised the 
picture — which was truly worth praising — as 
much as he could possibly have desired. 
Then she began to look about the room. 
Some of its old family portraits elicited her 
admiration — in the very old time, family por- 
traits were not always daubs — and then she 
began to examine various French and German 
engravings hung here and there in nooks and 
corners. 

“ So this is where you write ! ” said she, 
pausing before a table upon which signs of 
literary occupation were to be seen. “ What 
a pleasant place for authorship — at leisure ! 
You ought to be a poet, Mr. Devereux, sit- 
ting in this charming old library, with a 
rose-garden under your window, and a view 
of lovely scenery beyond ! But what is this 
hanging over your table ? ” 

“ Only an engraving I found among my 
things the other day,” answered he. “ I 
hung it here because I thought — or I fancied 
— that the feminine figure resembled your- 
self.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said she, smiling. “ In that 
case, I must see it more closely.” 

He held the light for her, and she saw 
that it was a scene such as some of the mi- 
nor English artists are rather fond of paint- 
ing. Even in the engraving, it showed con- 
siderable art and skill. A fair, stately woman 
dressed in widow’s weeds — a woman whose 
general appearance was so like her own that 
the resemblance was patent even to herself — 
stood in a church-yard by a large white mar- 
ble cross that marked the head of a freshly- 
made grave. It was evident that she had 
just arisen from her knees, for the grass was 
bent down all around her, but the proud, ex- 
pressive dignity of her attitude was match- 
less, though there was a certain pathos on 
the lines of the steadfast face. A strong con- 
trast was made by the figure at the other end 


of the grave — a slender, handsome man, wha 
stood with folded arms fixing on her a glance 
of fierce passion and fierce disdain. The 
background of the picture framed these fig- 
ures admirably. There were green yews 
drooping over an old Gothic church, quiet 
graves and crosses hung with wreaths of im- 
mortelles. 

“ It is a good picture, and, I should think, 
well painted,” said Alice, at last ; “ but I 
don’t like the subject. There is something 
repulsive about a love-scene in a grave- 
yard.” 

“ Do you call thai a love-scene ? ” asked 
Devereux, in surprise. “ I should caU it any 
thing else. It is evident that he is an old 
lover whom the lady had forgotten or re- 
jected ; but it is also evident that he has 
come not to sue, but to upbraid. See, how- 
ever, the magnificent repose and dignity of 
her whole face and manner ! That is what 
reminds me so much of you.” 

“ You flatter me,” she said, smiling. But 
she moved away from the picture, as if she 
did not like to look at it. 

“ Take my advice,” she said, after a min- 
ute. “ Hang this exquisite head of St. John 
over your writing-table, instead of that scene 
which leaves one in doubt who was right or 
who was wrong, and gives no clew to the re- 
sult of the dramatic situation.” 

“ Uncertainty is not always the worst 
evil,” said he, half sadly. “ There are many 
others much worse. Sometimes certainty is 
one of them.” 

She answered nothing, but moved on a 
little farther, and paused before one of the 
open windows, gazing out on the fragrant 
stillness of the summer night. She looked 
like a fair dream-lady in her sweeping white 
dress, yet her pulses were beating very 
quickly, and the atmosphere about her 
seemed full of a certain thrill. She knew 
that a word — nay, a glance — would bring 
upon her the issue which she had fully ex- 
pected to meet that night. But, somehow, 
this picture had unnerved her, and she could 
not resolve to meet it. Old memories came 
back with strange force. Something in the 
dark, scornful face of the man at the foot of 
the grave — something of expression, not of 
feature — had waaened much which she had 
thought long since dead. For once her usual 
stately self-control did not come at her call. 
Devereux, for his part, felt chilled by hei 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


129 


sudden silence and reserve. His heart sank 
— he feared more than he hoped. He hesi- 
tated — doubted — asked himself if he had not 
better wait. 

They were still standing apart in this way 
when a whist-quartet came in, and the oppor- 
tunity was lost. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Ip there is a bore in this world greater 
than the bore of going to see ‘ views,’ I don’t 
know what it is ! ” said Rose Inglesby, as 
she sat at the breakfast- table in her riding- 
habit, eating her muflBns and drinking her 
coffee with the air of a martyr. “ I hate 
scenery ! ” the young heretic went on vi- 
ciously, “ and of all kinds of scenery I think 
I hate cascades most. There is no end to 
the shoes I have worn out over those abomi- 
nable rocks — you need not laugh, papa ! You 
really haven’t an idea what it is to be made a 
victim in this way.” 

“ My dear child, why don’t you stay at 
home, then ? ” asked Mrs. Inglesby, mild- 

ly- 

“ That is just like you, mamma,” said her 
daughter, hopelessly. “ If I did stay at home, 
you would be the first to say that it was 
awfully uncivil to let Alice go alone, espe- 
cially since the party was made up for her. 
I fancy she is nearly as much bored as I am, 
only she takes good care not to say so.” 

“ It isn’t everybody who is as blind to the 
beauties of Nature as you are, Rosie,” said 
her father. “ I’ve do doubt Alice will enjoy 
the cascade very much.” 

“ Well, perhaps she may,” returned Rose 
the skeptical. “ I forget that she is going in 
Mr. Devereux’s new dog-cart, with Mr. Deve- 
reux himself to talk ‘the sublime, the Imroic, 
and Mr. Carlyle,’ all the way. These things 
may season the cascade for her. Not pos- 
sessing them, they naturally don’t season it 
for me.” 

“ Mr. Anson is very pleasant, Rose,” said 
Mrs. Inglesby, in deprecating support of the 
gentleman who was to have the honor of 
riding at Miss Inglesby’s bridle-rein. 

“ He loas pleasant six months back,” said 
Rose, coolly ; “ but I exhausted him long ago 
— most men are not good for more than three 
months — and he tires me to death now. Oh, 
dear ! ” 


This apparently rather irrelevant sigh was 
addressed to the memory of Kennon. “ If he 
were only here ! ” Rose thought. In that case 
it is probable that her martyr excursion would 
have worn a very different seeming. 

Mrs. Henry Inglesby entered just here, 
and her appearance ended the conversation. 
She was dressed in driving-costume, and dis- 
played a pair of wonderfully strong boots for 
the colonel’s admiration. 

“ They have told me so many frightful 
things about the rocks,” she said, “ that I 
have shod myself as if for an Alpine ascent. 
I am afraid I am late. Rose, isn’t it nearly 
time to start ? ” 

“ Indeed, I don’t know,” said Rose. “ I 
only wish I had been there and was safely 
back again.” 

It may be well to premise that the excur- 
sion which Miss Inglesby regarded with so 
much discontent was one that no stranger 
visiting Northorpe was ever suffered to neg- 
lect — to wit, a visit to a certain famous cas- 
cade near the town. On the present occasion 
the excursion was to take the form of that 
most tiresome of all social amusements — a 
picnic. At the Devereux entertainment the 
plan had been mooted. Mrs. Reynolds, who 
was the most obliging of social purveyors, 
said at once that she would chaperon any 
party desirous of visiting the falls; and a 
party was forthwith arranged. Of course, Mr. 
Devereux placed his equipage at Mrs. Ingles- 
by’s command ; and when this attention was 
gracefully accepted, Northorpe, of course, 
nodded its head more sagely than ever, and 
said, “ What a suitable match it will be ! ” 

It is one thing to drive with a man, how- 
ever, and quite another to marry him. Mrs. 
Inglesby found the first very pleasant as she 
bowled along in the early freshness of the 
bright, summer morning ; but perhaps it was 
because she had not quite made up her mind 
with regard to the second that she kept the 
conversation steadily on the smooth ground 
of ordinary subjects. Those topics which 
Rose included under the general, or rather 
vague, head of “ the sublime, the heroic, and 
Mr. Carlyle,” served very well for the five or 
six miles of moderately good road traversed 
before they reached their destination. 

“ I believe we must alight here,” said Mr. 
Devereux, drawing up his horses on the sum- 
mit of a hill, where the road they had been 
following suddenly came to an end in the 


9 


130 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


midst of some woods. “ You see the eques- 
trians have dismounted,” he went on, pointing 
to several horses fastened under the trees, 
“ and the best thing we can do is to follow 
their example. Now” — after they had alighted 
— “ shall we make the descent ? ” 

“ Had we not better wait for Mrs. Rey- 
nolds ? ” said Alice, who felt indolent and 
ready to stay where she was, at least for a time. 

“ The others have not waited for us,” said 
her companion, in reply to this ; “ and it is a 
case of every man for himself in the matter 
of descent. Mrs. Reynolds has three or four 
people with her; but, if even she were alone, 
I am sure I could not render assistance to 
any one beside yourself.” 

“Wait and see if I need it,” said Alice, 
smiling. “ I am trained in the matter of 
mountain-climbing — and the only time I ever 
absolutely needed help was in ascending Mont 
Blanc. That was terrible ! Is this the way 
we go ? Then lead on, and let me see if I 
cannot dispense with the assistance of which 
you speak.” 

“ You surely will not be so unkind as to de- 
prive me of the pleasure of rendering it,” said 
he, with a great deal of seriousness in his 
eyes, despite the jest in his voice. 

“ I will make no rash resolutions,” she 
answered. “ Lead on, and let me see.” 

Without another word, he obeyed, leading 
the way along a narrow path, and, after a mo- 
ment, down an almost precipitate hill-side. 
The way was very winding, so winding that it 
was hardly possible to see more than a step 
in advance, and Alice soon found herself slip- 
ping and sliding from one steep rock to an- 
other, with the least possible amount of per- 
sonal volition, and the least possible idea 
where she was going next. Before very long, 
she came to a halt. 

“ I think you will have to help me over 
this place, Mr. Devereux,” she said, in a hesi- 
tating voice. 

And Mr. Devereux, who had been listening 
with painful intensity for this sound, turned 
in an instant. 

“ I thought you would find it very rough,” 
he said, as if apologizing for the roughness. 
Then, with a thrill of pleasure, he took the 
small, gloved hand outstretched to him, and 
carefully assisted her along the descent, which 
momently became more difficult. 

“Surely we must be nearly down, now,” 
she said, at last; and, as she spoke, they 


made a sudden turn, stumbled over some 
sharp rocks for about twenty feet farther, and 
then found themselves on smooth ground, with 
the cascade before them. 

Now, there can be no doubt that there are 
many cascades far more beautiful than this 
which was the pride and boast of Northorpe. 
Still it was beautiful enough to warrant a 
considerable amount of enthusiasm from en- 
thusiastic people, and beautiful enough to 
startle Alice Inglesby into silent admiration 
when she came upon it thus. She had not 
expected much, and it was with a feeling of 
surprise that she found herself quite taken by 
storm. Looking round, she saw that they 
were in a deep gorge between the hills, or 
rather in a sort of basin, which at one end 
opened into a ravine. On the opposite side to 
where they stood rose a stately hill, crowned 
to the summit with foliage almost tropical in 
its luxuriance ; on the other, a frowning cliff 
of dark gray rock leaned far over, and threw 
its deep shadow down below. This cliff ex- 
tended round in circular shape, and, where it 
met the green hill already mentioned, a small 
stream forced its way between enormous moss- 
covered rocks, and sprang over the precipice, 
sending up a shower of spray and foam, and 
spreading out at the bottom into a glossy pool 
that lay like a sheet of crystal at Alice’s feet. 
As it glided away down the ravine, falling in 
miniature cascades at every step, the same 
stream filled the solitude with the fitful mono- 
tone of its voice, like a poem of Nature’s own 
singing. 

After a long silence, Mrs. Inglesby turned 
to her companion. “We are poorly off for 
adjectives,” she said, “ or else we must use 
them too freely. ‘ Beautiful ’ seems to me a 
weak word for all this lavish glory ; yet what 
better word does the language afford ? Can 
you suggest one ? ” 

“ There are a good many,” he answered, 
“ but they are all liable to the same objection. 
We use them for .lesser things, until they lose 
force, and are unfit to express our admiration 
of the greater. When you see a green mead- 
ow, or a sunny hill-side, or a stretch of shad- 
owy woods, what do you say ? ” 

“ Generally, ‘ How beautiful ! ’ or else, ‘ How 
lovely ! ’ ” 

“ Or else, ‘ How picturesque ! ’ or some- 
times even ‘ How grand ! Well, when you 
stood on the summit of Mont Blanc, what did 
you say ? ” 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


131 


“You have never stood there, or you 
would not ask me. I said — nothing.'’ 

“ And you said nothing here — and I can 
suggest nothing that is worth saying. We 
must blame ourselves — not the language. It 
gives us terms, but I am afraid there is no 
doubt that we debase them. Unless we say 
‘Stupendous!’ I really think we must hold 
our peace.” 

“ Let us say ‘ Stupendous ! ’ then, by all 
means,” answered she, smiling ; “ and, having 
said it, let us sit down.” 

“ Stop a moment,” said he, as she was 
about to suit the action to the word, and sit 
down on a convenient rock near by. “ This 
is such a public place — that is — you know 
Mrs. Reynolds and her party will be upon us 
before long. Let us explore a little, as those 
who reached here first have done.” 

She hesitated an instant, then consented, 
and they moved away. As they skirted the 
pool, and crossed the stream that was hurry- 
ing down the ravine, they caught sight of 
several of their companions — some making 
very picturesque effects as they were perched 
on overhanging rocks, and others climbing, 
with laborious energy, up the steep mountain- 
side. 

“ We will go over yonder by the cascade,” 
said Devereux. “ Are you fond of ferns ? I 
see some beautiful ones growing there on the 
rocks.” 

So, over to the cascade they took their 
way, and led on, partly by Devereux, partly 
by the ferns, and partly, also, by her own in- 
clination, Alice ascended from point to point 
of the rocks, until at last she found herself 
elevated much above her former stand-point, 
but profiting very little in the way of pros- 
pect. The dense undergrowth of the moun- 
tain shut in the view on one side; on the 
other, the whirling rush of the falling water 
was all that could be seen. 

“I hope this is sufficiently secluded for 
your taste,” said she, looking up at Devereux 
with an air of resignation. “ I am very tired 
— may I sit down now ? Thanks — yes, I 
would like my ferns.” 

She sat down on a stone, and, leaning 
back against the massive gray rock, began 
examining the ferns and lichens which her 
companion laid in her lap. She had taken 
off her hat, and laid it beside her, as a recep- 
tacle for the selected specimens. Her rich 
hair caught the sunlight as she bent her head. 


and exercise had given a very clear and brill- 
iant color to her cheek. Beautiful always, 
she was almost more than beautiful now ; and 
it was not strange that Devereux held his 
breath as he stood looking at her. She did 
not notice the gaze, partly because it was her 
policy to ignore it, but kept on talking in her 
light, graceful way about botany in general, 
and ferns in particular, until at last his con- 
tinued silence forced itself on her attention. 
She looked up, then, with a laughing question 
on her lips ; but, despite her self-possession, 
stopped short. The moment that she met 

them, his eyes told her that the issue was at 
hand. 

Now, it is not to be supposed that she 
needed to be told — but she had not expected 
it just then. She was off her guard, as it 
were, and a shock is always unpleasant, let it 
come how it will. She colored vividly — flush- 
ing, indeed, to the very roots of her hair — 

then, as he was about to speak, rose to her 
feet. 

“ I think we had better go back,” 
she said, hurriedly. “ I am quite rested now.’' 

But Devereux had no mind to let his op- 
portunity slip in this way. There had been 
nothing premeditated in the matter. The 
situation had taken him as much by surprise 
as it had taken her; but it was upon him 
now, and he meant to seize its advantages. 
The fever of sudden resolution took posses- 
sion of him, and, as is the case with a great 
many quiet men, its very novelty lent it force. 
He had not meant to speak just now ; but her 
beauty first unnerved him, and then her 
strange embarrassment lent him courage. 
When she rose, he stepped before her. 

“No, Mrs. Inglesby,” he said, “don’t go 
back now. Stop — at least for a minute. I 
have something to say to you.” 

“You can say it down below,” answered 
Alice, suddenly, unaccountably, nervously anx- 
ious to get away. “ Pray, Mr. Devereux — 
pray let us go.” 

“ Of course we will, if you desire it,” he 
said ; but with such a look of pain on his face 
that, although he moved aside, she stood still. 
After all, what folly was this ? Why should 
she act so rashly ? Why should she not hear 
him ? She knew, or thought she knew, what 
answer she intended to give. Why not, there- 
fore, have it over at once? In a second these 
thoughts flashed through her mind, and, in a 
second, also, she acted on them. 


132 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


“Pardon me,” she said, looking at him 
with her own gracious glance and manner. 
“I did not mean to be rude. I will stay if 
you wish it.” 

“ Thank you,” he answered, hastily. Then 
he was silent for a moment, looking at the 
spray of the cascade as it dashed by, and 
striving to grasp words in which to express 
the feeling that overmastered him. Words 
did not come to him readily at any time, but 
now he seemed to have lost all command of 
them. As her embarrassment had given him 
courage, so her self-possession robbed him of 
it. He hesitated so long that, at last, in des- 
peration, he was about to speak, when there 
came the sound of crackling boughs and 
twigs, as somebody forced a way through the 
luxuriant undergrowth, and a distant shout 
from below was answered by a voice near at 
hand, saying, “ Thanks, yes — I’m looking for 
Miss Inglesby.” The next moment a man’s 
hand and arm appeared over the rock, grasped 
firmly the bough of a tough shrub, and, with 
this help, the body to which the arm belonged 
made an agile spring and lighted at Alice’s 
side. As she drew back, the new-comer 
gained his feet, and she stood face to face 
with Lawrence Kennon. 

If Mr. Devereux had been questioned half 
an hour later, it is to be feared that he would 
have been found to entertain but a confused 
remembrance of the events of the next few 
minutes. The appearance of his cousin 
(whom he thought far away from Northorpe) 
was surprising enough in itself ; but this sur- 
prise deepened into amazement when he saw 
that a recognition instantly took place be- 
tween Kennon and Alice Inglesby. 

“ You ! ” said the former, catching his 
breath with a gasp, while his face paled, and 
his eyes dilated almost instantaneously — 
“ you ! ” 

“Yes — it is I,” said Alice, quietly; then, 
after a minute, she held out her hand, saying 
a little wistfully, “ Fate has ordained it, Mr. 
Kennon. You see I remember that we are 
old friends.” But, instead of taking her hand, 
Kennon folded his arms, and recoiled a step. 

“ There is no question of fate or friend- 
ship in the matter,” he said, coldly. “ This 
is simply a mistake. I was looking for Miss 
Inglesby, and I was told that she was here. I 
see that she is not, so I beg pardon for my 
intrusion, and leave you to the tete-d-iete which 
I disturbed.” 


He shot one dark, resentful glance at Dev 
ereux as he said the last words ; but the lat- 
ter was too puzzled to notice it. Indeed, as 
it chanced, there was nothing in his mind but 
cordial kindness toward his kinsman, and, if 
he could have secured a moment’s time be- 
fore complete bewilderment overtook hin), he 
would have liked nothing better than to ex- 
press this kindness. As it was, he stood 
still, and said nothing. Not so, Alice, how- 
ever. She was mistress of the situation by 
right of her supreme self-command, and, as 
Kennon turned to go, she laid her hand on 
his arm. Holding him captive thus, she 
spoke to Devereux with the same gracious 
smile that had given him hope when she 
agreed to stay, ten minutes before. 

“ Mr. Kennon and I are old friends,” she 
said. “We knew each other long ago, and 
he is naturally surprised to see me again — to 
see me here. If you would not mind — if I 
might ask you to leave us for a little while ? 
He will take me safely down the mountain, I 
am sure.” 

Within bounds of civility, a plainer re- 
quest could hardly have been made. What 
Devereux replied, or how he got away, he 
never knew. He went, of course — there was 
no alternative to that — but he carried a sore 
heart with him, and it would have been yet 
sorer, if he could have heard the first words 
which Alice spoke after he was safely out of 
ear-shot. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ So this is the meeting for which we hoped 
ten years ago,” she said, in her soft, full 
voice. “We meet, and you repulse even my 
friendship, because you are looking for Miss 
Inglesby, and I — am her sister-in-law.” 

There was a tone in this sentence that 
stung Kennon with some latent meaning ; for 
a fiush came over his face, and he lifted his 
dark eyes suddenly to her own. 

“You know that is not true,” he said 
quickly, almost fiercely — “ you know I have 
not forgotten ten years ago — or the woman 
who promised to be faithful to me, either. 
That woman, however, was Alice Chisholm, 
and not ” — he paused a moment, and added 
bitterly — “ Miss Inglesby’s sister-in-law.” 

“We won’t tear open the old wounds, or 
reopen the old quarrel,” said she, gravely 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


133 


“ It is all over — utterly past and gone. But 
fate having brought us together — in a man- 
ner, too, that will make it hard for us to avoid 
some slight intercourse — you will pardon me 
if I ask why Alice Chisholm cannot be your 
friend.” 

“Alice Chisholm was a woman of the 
world ten years ago,” he answered, still full 
of bitterness. “ She has not so far forgotten 
her worldly knowledge that she should need 
to ask that question now.” 

“ Granting that she was a woman of the 
world,” said she, with a vibration of scorn 
in her voice, “ do you think that she did not 
know then, and does not know now, that you 
— yoM, Laurence Kennon — are the last man 
in the world to feel deeply or resent bitterly 
a mere love-disappointment ? If you still re- 
fuse to take the hand which I offer — for the 
last time, remember — I shall know that it is 
not wounded love, but wounded pride, which 
has made you so implacable.” 

“You can think what you please of me,” 
said he, leaning back against the rock from 
which she had risen, and looking passionate- 
ly at the beautiful face before him. “ My 
God ! how I oughi to hate you ! ” he went on. 
“ To think of your treachery and your co- 
quetry — to think how you have wrecked my 
life, as much of it as was left to wreck — and 
tlien to think that I should come here 
now — ” 

He broke off here with something like a 
gasp. She did not answer, her color did not 
deepen, her eyes did not quail. She stood 
before him like a proud, calm statue, daring 
him, as it were, to say and do his worst. 

Suddenly he advanced a step and grasped 
her arm. 

“You talk of Alice Chisholm,” he said, 
almost fiercely. “ What if I were fool enough 
to call her back to life and accept her ‘ friend- 
ship ? ’ Would she like to play the old game 
over again ? I believe once was enough for 
me. Am I any better, any more desirable 
now than when so dutifully and obediently 
she gave me up — left me to live or die as 
best I could — and married — ” 

She lifted her hand with a silencing gest- 
ure. “ Hush ! For the sake of the old time, 
you can say what you please of me ; but he 
was my husband — and he is dead.” 

“ Yes, he is dead : and I did not mean to 
speak ill of him. Why should I ? No doubt 
he was a good fellow enough — only I hated 


him too much ever to find it out. Well, you 
married him — not me. Now, that you are 
free again, would you marry me if I gave my 
heart up for your sport again, and asked you 
to do so ? ” 

Passionate as the question was, and full 
of bitter scorn — the scorn of one who meets 
some sore temptation beyond his strength, to 
which he must succumb — it was earnest with 
an earnestness that few things possess in this 
world of sham and sentiment. Perhaps the 
fire that rang in every tone stirred the heart 
of Alice Chisholm sleeping in Mrs. Inglesby’s 
breast. But she was a woman of the world, 
and no outward token of this appeared on 
her proud, calm face, no glance of it flickered 
into the clear, brown eyes steadfastly facing 
his own. When she spoke, her voice was 
soft and even : 

“ Tell me, rather, if you would advise me 
to do so ? Those prudent counsellors of 
whom you spoke are all gone now. I stand 
quite alone, with my own life in my own hand 
to make or mar as I please. Laurence, should 
I make or mar it by marrying you ? ” 

There was something of solemnity both in 
the form and in the tone of her appeal. For 
reply, the lids sank slowly over Kennon’s 
eyes, and once more the dark flush rose in 
his cheek. 

“You know yourself,” he said. “You 
know what people say of me. Why ask 
me?” 

“ I ask you because you can tell me best.” 

“ Then I tell you that you would mar it 
beyond all hope of redemption,” he answered, 
violently. “ Is that enough ? Ten years ago, 
when they warned you against me, I was a 
paladin compared to what I have been since. 
You did well to marry Inglesby then. Trust 
me, you will do better still to marry Devereux 
now.” 

She started. 

“ So — you know that ? ” 

“ Know it ! Would I not have been blind 
and deaf if I had seen him standing here, and 
not known it? But I did not need to dis 
cover it for myself. I reached Northorpe 
this morning, and I heard the news from half 
a dozen people before I came out here.” 

“ You credit it, of course? ” 

“ Yes ; why not ? We are both ten years 
older, and you are beautiful and poor, while 
Devereux, thanks to my folly, is rich, and 
ready to be won.” 


134 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


“ You forget yourself,” said she, haughti- 

‘J- 

“No,” answered he, recklessly, “I only 
forget my new role — that of being an ‘ old 
friend ’ of the charming Mrs. Inglesby. Alice, 
Alice,” he went on, suddenly changing his 
tone, and seizing her hands, “ Fate, as you 
say, has brought us together once more — let 
us not throw away our last hope of happiness. 
Why should we not cast away all these bit- 
ter years, and their bitter memories ? Why 
should we not live our lives out as we once 
dreamed of doing ? ” 

She left her hands in his clasp, but she 
smiled coldly 

“ You forget,” she said, “ you forget that 
we are ten years older, and — poor.” 

“ I forget every thing but you,” he an- 
swered, passionately ; “ every thing but the 
hope that is shining for me in your eyes.” 

“ Shining only to deceive, then,” she said, 
bitterly ; but suddenly she cried out as if in 
pain : “ Laurence, let me go. I — I cannot 
bear this. Let me go — let me think ! ” 

He let her go; and, as she sat down on 
the same stone where she had been sitting 
when Devereux’s glance startled her, he 
turned his back, and, walking to the extreme 
verge of the rock, stood looking down at the 
white waters of the foaming cascade. After 
awhile she called his name, and, when he 
turned, he saw that her resolution was taken. 

“ It would never do, Laurence,” she said, 
gravely. “ When you think it all over, you 
will see for yourself that it would never do. 
Just now you have been led away by im- 
pulse, and you forget the gulf that lies be- 
tween us. No, I don’t mean your life or any 
thing connected with it,” she said, as he was 
about to speak. “ I mean the change that 
time has wrought in our characters, in our 
very selves. If we had been let alone ten 
years ago, the end might have been very dif- 
ferent — but now it is too late. We have 
grown apart, instead of together: you have 
lost your inheritance — I am entirely without 
fortune. We should, in every sense, mar 
each other’s lives if we cast them together. 
Laurence, is it not best for us each to go our 
own way, and live, in the future as in the 
past, apart ? ” 

“It is for you to decide,” he answered, 
striving to repress the emotion which he 
could not altogether conceal. “You were 
always reasonable and prudent in the ex- 


treme-even ten years ago. You mean, then, 
that we shall each continue our present game 
— that you will marry my precious cousin, 
and that I must play the fortune-hunter with 
that girl down yonder ? ” 

“ Laurence ” (she turned on him sharply), 
“ do you mean to say that you do not — that 
you never have — cared for her ? ” 

“ I mean to say that I never cared for but 
one woman in the world, and that she threw 
my love away, like that ^' — (he snapped off a 
twig and tossed it on the whirling waters) — 
“ I mean to say, too, that you may judge 
whether this love was dead when I tell you 
that the mere sound of your name was enough 
to drive me from Northorpe as soon as you 
entered it ; and I came here to-day — and this 
is the end ! ” 

She put one merciless question directly 
to him : “ What did you come here to-day 
for ? ” 

He answered as briefly : “ To ask Miss In- 
glesby to marry me.” 

“And yet you have asked me ?” 

“ Yes, I am a fool. I have asked you.” 

“Well, I will not be a fool and take you 
at your word. We are old friends — that is 
all. On the strength of that friendship let 
me wish you success in your wooing. Only 
promise me one thing — that you will be kind 
to her.” 

“ She would thank you for such considera- 
tion,” he said, bitterly — adding, with a sudden 
passionate vehemence, “ and I thank you for 
proving to me, once for all, that ten years 
ago, or to-day I am equally nothing to you !” 

“ Laurence ! ” she said, startled in spite 
of herself. But she spoke too late. He had 
already flung himself from the rock and was 
gone. 

Poor Rose ! It was hard on her when 
she heard — as she did hear before long — that 
Kennon had come to the falls with Mrs. Rey- 
nolds ; that he stayed but a short time ; that 
he saw Mrs. Inglesby; and that he had gone 
back to Northorpe without seeing her. “ No 
doubt it was on account of Mr. Devereux that 
he went,” people said to each other, as they 
ate their luncheon, scattered about in pict- 
uresque groups over the rocks. But Rose 
knew better. A sudden instinct, an intuition 
of the truth, enlightened her ; and, when she 
was told that he had met her sister-in-law, 
nothing more was needed for its confirma- 
tion. “ So she has got him, too,”' thought 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


135 


the girl, looking with gloomy eyes at Alice, 
as she sat in all her brilliant beauty not far 
off. It was very bitter — it was surely very 
hard. Was it not enough that Devereux, 
who had been predestined her own captive, 
should fall into the stranger’s toils, but Ken- 
non, too, must be a victim ? Could not Alice 
be content with the rich prize, the desirable 
cousin, but must she lay hands also on the 
one whom everybody cried out upon as unde- 
sirable, and for whom she could have no pos- 
sible use ? Of course it will be seen that Miss 
Inglesby was taking a great deal for granted ; 
but that was her way, as it is the way of 
most imaginative people. And her instinct 
certainly pointed very shrewdly to the truth. 

It would be difficult to say whether her 
fears were most relieved or realized when, as 
she sat silent and distrait in the drawing- 
room that evening, Kennon made his appear- 
ance. She knew his step in the hall, and 
animation flashed instantly into her languid 
face. Alice knew it, too, and her eyes im- 
mediately sought Rose with a strange, intent 
gaze, of which the girl was wholly unaware. 
Her own color did not vary by a shade, nor 
did her manner change in the least, even 
when Kennon entered, and when she was 
obliged to explain their former acquaintance 
to Mrs. Inglesby. Rose heard the explana- 
tion, and, when Kennon came over to her, 
she was too much disturbed to notice his 
bearing as closely as she had wished to do. 
Instead, he was able to notice and to set his 
own interpretation upon the flushed cheeks 
and wistful eyes uplifted to him. But, in 
truth, this preoccupation mattered very little. 
If Rose had been able to judge, she would 
have found that he was entirely the same in 
manner as when she had seen him last. He 
had been quite unnerved that morning; quite 
thrown out of the artificial self which years 
and much experience of life had fashioned ; 
but with such a man such a state of feeling 
is only temporary. To-night he was himself 
again ; and all the more steeled in his pur- 
pose by a fierce contempt for his own senti- 
ment and folly. When he saw Rose’s emo- 
tion, he thought, “ The game is won ; ” and 
when he sat down by her side, it was with 
the determined resolve to make good use of 
his time. 

Good use of his time he certainly made ; 
for, though he did not absolutely ask her to 
marry him — Mrs. Inglesby’s watchful care 


and the lack of opportunity prevented that — 
he did every thing else which it is practicable 
to do in a room full of people. When he 
went away at last, he left Rose in a fever of 
excitement, triumph, and indecision. He had 
asked her, at parting, if she meant to walk 
the next morning, and she had told him ye? 
— feeling confident that he would meet her, 
and ask the question he had not been able to 
ask that night. Yet, strange to say with re- 
gard to her answer, she was by no means 
clear. It is one thing to like a man and flirt 
with him to the very verge of love-making, 
and quite another to promise or intend to 
marry him. Rose had long since taken the 
first step, but, when it came to the second, 
she had still sense enough left to pause. She 
knew what a storm of opposition she must 
expect from her parents ; ' what an outcry 
from the world ; but these things counted 
little with her. In the ignorant boldness 
of youth, she was ready to defy them. The 
fear that tugged at her heart-strings, the fear 
that made her hold back, was the fear of 
Kennon himself. Not the fear of what his 
life had been and might be yet — for there, 
again, her ignorance made her bold — but the 
fear of his love, the distrust of his sincerity. 
She had felt it always, more or less ; but, 
notwithstanding that he had never been so 
devoted as on that night, she felt it that 
night more than ever before. Perhaps it was 
his strange departure from the cascade, or 
that “ former acquaintance ” with her sister- 
in-law, of which he had spoken so lightly, or 
the earnest gaze in Alice’s eyes when she met 
them once or twice, or perhaps only that in- 
tangible something which can always be felt, 
if not detected, in an acted or spoken false- 
hood. Whatever it was, the fact remained 
the same. Once at least, before it was too 
late, she wavered — once at least, asked her- 
self whether the gain was worth the risk. 
But such questions are easily answered when 
years are few and impulses strong. “ If I 
must be miserable,” thought the girl of 
eighteen, “ it is better to be miserable with 
him than without him. Besides, I do believe 
— I will believe — that he loves me ! ” And so 
the die was cast. When she laid her head 
down on the pillow that night, her decision 
was made — she would accept him, and abide 
the consequences. 

Meanwhile there was another person be- 
sides herself whom indecision and conflict kept 


136 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


wakeful during much of that night. Long 
after Rose’s eyes had closed in slumber, Alice 
Inglesby still paced her room, with a face 
strangely set and brows strangely knitted. 
It was evident that she was thinking deeply ; 
and truly she had cause enough for thought. 
In the course of our lives it chances that most 
of us influence directly or indirectly, in greater 
or lesser degree, the lives of others. But, as 
a general rule, we do not recognize even this 
influence until after the effect has taken place. 
We are rarely conscious of it at the time, for 
we walk ever in a mist; and the day of our 
death is not more effectually hidden from us 
than the consequences of our least actions. 
Yet sometimes this veil of ignorance is lifted 
— partially, at least. Sometimes we are able 
to behold, as in a mirror, the direct results of 
certain acts, and, beholding tliem, we must 
be strangely reckless of things present, and 
things to come, if we do not pause — awed a 
little by our own responsibility. It was such 
a moment, just now, with Alice. She was 
painfully conscious that she held in her hand 
the thread of fate for three lives besides her 
own. She was oppressed with the sense that, 
on her decision, rested the future of three 
people; and that circumstance — the potent 
monarch of human life — seemed for once pas- 
sively awaiting her command. All day the 
sense of this responsibility had been with her, 
and all day she had rebelled against and de- 
nied it. “ I am only one of the actors,” she 
thought. “ I have no more control over the 
drama than they.” But to-night this flimsy 
self-deception was at an end. To-night she 
saw before her the stern array of inevitable 
consequences, and, since they were inevitable, 
faced them steadily. “ Once for all, I will 
weigh the matter in every aspect,” she 
thought ; and, as the hours went on, she still 
paced the floor, and still weighed it. 

She had summed up the whole case in its 
personal application to themselves, when she 
spoke to Kennon in the morning; but there 
was the other side, the side not personal to 
themselves, to be considered. When she said 
to him, “ You have lost an inheritance ; I am 
wholly without fortune. We should, in every 
sense, mar each other’s lives if we cast them 
together,” she stated a truth which he could 
not gainsay ; but when she was called upon 
to decide for Devereux and Rose, it was not 
BO easy. “ They go into the matter with their 
eyes open,” she said. “ Rose loves Kennon, 


and Devereux loves me — is not that enough ? ” 
But then came the question — Did they go 
into it with their eyes open? Would Rose 
be likely to marry Kennon if she could hear 
him declare that he had never loved but one 
woman, and she the woman who had given 
him up ten years before? Would Devereux 
accept even her hand if he could read her 
heart and see how persistently it clung to the 
man who had first wakened its romance and 
passion? Yet what of these things? Was 
it once, in a thousand cases of marriage, that 
love was equal on both sides ? Did not hun- 
dreds of men and women marry from motives 
more unworthy than Kennon’s or her own, 
and yet make excellent husbands and wives ? 
She could answer for her own after-conduct, 
she was sure. She liked Devereux well 
enough to do more than tolerate him. His 
character was pleasant to her, his manners 
suited her, and his tastes agreed with hers. 
This was a good foundation, and of herself 
she had reason to be confident. But Ken- 
non ! Tliere, indeed, was cause for hesi- 
tation. What his life had been, she knew ; 
what it would be, she had sufficient experi- 
ence of the world to foresee. Knowing the 
one, foreseeing the other, could she stand 
aside and let Rose rush headlong on her fate ? 
In vain she thought that it was none of her 
affair ; that the girl’s self, and the girl’s par- 
ents, were alone concerned. Conscience rose 
up in reply, and said : “ It is you alone who 
can save her.” “ But why should I save her ? ” 
she asked. “ She is nothing to me ; while 
Kennon — whose interests I am serving — is 
very much.” 

She had scarcely asked the question when 
she stopped a moment, and her glance, by 
some strange magnetism, was attracted to a 
miniature that lay on her toilet-table. Almost 
unconsciously, she took it up and opened it. 
When the lid of the case flew back, the face 
of a young man looked at her from the ivory. 
It was the likeness of her husband. For a 
second she was startled, since usually this 
miniature remained in her writing-desk, and 
she could not think how it chanced to be here, 
until she suddenly remembered that Mrs. In- 
glesby had asked for it several days before, 
and that doubtless it had been returned that 
day during her absence. But, however the 
fact of its presence might be explained, there 
was no ignoring the effect which this presence 
produced. She looked steadfastly at th^ 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


137 


bright, young face, until large tears gathered 
in her eyes, and misted her sight. She had 
loved this dead man very tenderly — more, 
perhaps, as she might have loved a favorite 
brother, than as women usually love their 
husbands — but still with a depth and pathos 
that could not but rush back over her when 
she gazed thus on the shadow of the face that 
was forever gone from earth. “My poor 
darling ! — my poor, gallant boy ! ” she thought, 
weeping softly, and wiping away the tears as 
they fell. “ He loved me very dearly, and I 
can never prove my love for him ! — I can 
never repay the tenderness he gave me.” 
She said this half aloud, and she had scarcely 
finished saying it, when she started. Were 
her eyes bewitched, or did the face bear a 
likeness to Rose which she had never noticed 
in it before? People spoke of the resem- 
blance, she knew ; but she had never been 
able to discover it until now. Now suddenly 
it flashed upon her. Those violet eyes, look- 
ing up at her, were strangely soft and wistful 
for a man’s ; and how like they were, in form 
and tint, to those she had seen gazing into 
Kennon’s face that night ! Those lips, so 
softly curved and clearly cut, wore Rose’s 
own smile — the smile half arch, half sweet, 
which she so well remembered. Then it came 
back to her, like a forgotten dream, how the 
dead brother loved the little sister who had 
been his pet and darling, how tenderly he 
spoke of her, and how often he wished that 
Alice could see and know her, “You would 
be able to do her so much good,” he had said ; 
and now — it was no wonder Alice closed the 
case with a sharp pang, and turned away. 
Was it good she was about to do this sister 
of her dead husband ? 


CHAPTER VI. 

It may be imagined that, with thoughts 
such as these for her companions, Mrs. Ingles- 
by was little disposed for sleep. In fact, she 
still paced her chamber long after the other 
inmates of the house were wrapped in quiet 
slumber — long after even Rose’s white lids 
had sunk over her violet eyes. It was well 
on toward two o’clock when, at last, she sud- 
denly stopped and made an impatient gest- 
ure. 

“Things seem fantastic and unreal at 
night,” she said. “Somehow, they are al- 


ways magnified, and events or feel’ngs of 
really spaall importance assume gigantic pro- 
portions when viewed at such a time. I know 
perfectly well that all these absurd scruples 
on the one hand, these old, sentimental recol- 
lections on the other, will fade into absolute 
insignificance to-morrow morning. There- 
fore, why should I torment myself with 
them ? Has the surprise of the day un- 
strung me? Am I mad that I don’t see, 
not only what I could, but what I must^ 
do?” 

She walked abruptly across the floor, and 
drew back a curtaip from one of the windows 
— a window looking out over the garden and 
toward the Devereux House. The fragrant 
stillness of the starlit summer-night seemed 
to come to her like a soft caress ; there was 
not the faintest gleam of light anywhere, not 
the faintest sound of moving life — only the 
perfume of the flowers, the brightness of the 
stars, and the dark outline of the stately roof 
cutting against the steel-blue sky. As she 
stood quite motionless, she heard a clock, far 
away in the heart of the silent town, striking 
two; and at that moment, almost as if the 
stroke had been a signal, a wild glare of flame 
burst forth from the hitherto dark and silent 
Devereux House. 

For an instant, Alice stood petrified, ab- 
solutely doubting the evidence of her senses, 
and chained to the spot by sheer amazement ; 
but this inaction did not last more than an 
instant. She was a woman of rare coolness 
and presence of mind, and she realized at 
once that, owing to the lateness of the hour, 
the flames were likely to make fatal headway' 
before any one was roused in the quiet neigh- 
borhood. She could see that the fire had 
burst forth in the kitchen wing of the house. 
If the alarm was given immediately, there- 
fore, it might be possible to save the main 
building. She sprung from the window, and, 
running hastily down the corridor on which 
her chamber opened, she was soon thunder- 
ing vigorously at Colonel Inglesby’s door. 

“What’s the matter? Who the deuce is 
that ? ” cried a startled voice within. 

“It is I — Alice!” she answered. “Mr. 
Devereux’s house is on fire ! The alarm ought 
to be given at once ! Oh, sir, pray — pray get 
up ! ” 

Colonel Inglesby needed no further adjura- 
tion. She heard him say, “ The devil ! ” and 
make one spring to the floor. “ I’ll be there 


138 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


in a minute,” he answered. “ Rouse the ser- 
vants, Alice ! Send somebody to knock ’em 
up over there. Where did the tire burst out ? 
Has no alarm been given? ” 

“ I have not heard a sound,” she replied. 
“ There are never any policemen in this part 
of the town, and everybody seems asleep. 
The glare must wake them soon, however.” 

“ Is the fire serious ? ” 

“Very serious, I should think.” 

She waited to say no more, but hastened 
back to her own room to see how matters 
were progressing. Even in these few minutes, 
the fire had gained considerably ; but the house 
itself was yet wrapped in utter stillness. A 
sudden, horrible fear came over her. What 
if one of the tragedies so rife in these days 
of terror had been perpetrated ? What if 
the household had been murdered, and the 
house fired to conceal the crime? Anything 
seems possible in a moment of panic, espe- 
cially if that panic comes at night. Her 
heart seemed to stand still for a minute ; then 
a sudden fiood of resolution came to her. 
She turned, left the room, ran down-stairs — 
thinking, even in this moment of supreme 
excitement, that it was fortunate she had not 
undressed — and, groping her way through the 
dark house, managed to unbar one of the 
dining-room windows, and let herself into the 
garden. The whole thing occupied such a 
short space of time that she saw scarcely any 
change in the state of affairs when she stepped 
out into the open air. She did not stop to 
wonder at the quietness which still brooded 
over every thing, nor to admire the effect of 
the flames so vividly thrown into relief against 
the deep-purple sky. She sped swiftly down 
one of the paths which led to the gate open- 
ing into the Devereux grounds. It was as 
she reached this, and laid her hand on the 
familiar latch, that the first cry of “Fire!” 
rang out in the street; and, the next moment, 
the deep tones of the alarm-bell sounded. 

“Thank God !” she said — but still she 
held on her way, knowing that succor could 
not come for some time, and that meanwhile 
the fire might render the escape of those 
within difficult, if not dangerous. Quickly 
she sped across the flower-beds, quickly 
through the hedges and under the drooping 
vines laden with odorous blossoms, quickly 
across the lawn damp with clinging dew, 
quickly up the broad stone steps into the por- 
tico. Then seizing the bell-handle, she pulled 


it violently again and again. Still, no sound 
answered — though she could hear it tinkling 
far away. 

“ Good Heavens ! what can be the mat- 
ter ! ” she thought, turning round to see if 
no rescue was at hand. As she looked, 
she saw a man come dashing hurriedly over 
the lawn toward her. The front gates were 
still fastened, so that he had evidently leaped 
the palings. As he sprang up the steps, and 
they stood face to face in the bright glow, she 
saw that it was Kennon. 

“ Laurence ! ” she cried. 

“ Alice ! ” said he — in the tone of one 
overwhelmed with surprise. 

But the next instant he remembered him- 
self and drew back stiffly. 

“ I beg pardon, Mrs. Inglesby. I was sur- 
prised to see you here but I suppose that, 
like myself, you wish to rouse the inmates. 
Is it possible nobody is awake yet ? ” 

“ Nobody has stirred,” she answered. “ It 
seems to me exceedingly strange ! I am very 
glad you have come. I saw the fire first,” 
she went on, quickly, “my room is on this 
side— I left my father-in-law dressing — and — 
and — oh, pray ring the bell ! ” 

This confused speech did not sound very 
much like the stately Mrs. Inglesby, but in 
truth Kennon’s dark eyes were reading her 
face so keenly, and she was so well aware 
that he was wondering how she came to be 
awake and dressed at such an hour of the 
night, that her usual self-possession quite 
forsook her. 

“ Ring the bell ! ” she repeated, sharply, as 
he still stood looking at her. “ Surely they 
rrnist wake after awhile ! ” 

Peal after peal at the bell, knock after 
knock on the door producing no effect, Ken- 
non shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Devereux always slept like one of the 
seven champions of Christendom,” he said, 
“ and it is evident his servants share the pe- 
culiarity. If you’ll stay here, Mrs. Inglesby, 
I’ll go round and try to get into the bouse' 
another way. This really does begin to look 
serious ! ” 

“ Surely the fire-company will be here 
soon,” said she, anxiously — very anxiously, 
he thought. 

“ The alarm has just been given,” he an- 
swered. “ They are not likely to be here 
very soon. I am afraid the old house will 
certainly go.” 


MISS TNGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


139 


“ Oh, what a shame — what a pity ! ” 

“ Quite a pity ! ” said he, philosophically. 

“ How are you going to get in ? ” she 
asked, as he turned away. 

“ I shall break a window of the conserva- 
tory,” he answered, coolly. 

Then he walked off, but when he reached 
the conservatory, he found, much to his sur- 
prise, that she had followed him. 

“ If you have no objection, I will go in, 
too,” she said. “I can wake the servants, 
while you rouse Mr. Devereux.” 

“ Are you afraid to trust me with him ? ” 
asked he, with a sudden bitter tone in his 
voice, a sudden angry flash in his eye. “ I 
have not taken a degree in assassination 
yet.” 

“ You know better than that,” she an- 
swered, haughtily. “ Mr. Devereux is no 
more to me than any other acquaintance 
whose life I desire to save — no more than 
one of his servants. But if the house is 
doomed, I may be able to save a few valua- 
bles; and since there is nobody else to do it, 
I feel it right to go in.” 

“ I feel it right to tell you that there’s 
risk in it.” 

“ Scarcely just yet, I think.” 

He glanced up at the roof which was al- 
ready beginning to blaze in several places — 
shrugged his shoulders again — smashed a 
window, climbed in, and opened a door for 
her. Together they entered the house, and 
soon found their way to the upper regions. 
While Kennon went to wake his cousin, Alice 
roused the startled servants, who scarcely 
waited to throw on their clothes before they 
fled in wild alarm. 

Then suddenly, as if by magic, the grounds 
became thronged with people, the engines of 
the flre-company came up at a gallop, and be- 
gan to play upon the roof, adventurous spirits 
thronged the house, tossing the costly furni- 
ture recklessly out of the windows and injur- 
ing far more than they saved. Others again, 
came in to pilfer, the flames rushed steadily 
on, the people talked, the engines played, the 
flowers stared at the light of the great con- 
flagration, or withered away beneath its 
fierce heat — a scene of wild pandemonium 
replaced the odorous quiet of the summer 
night. 

In the midst of this, Devereux came has- 
tily up to Kennon, who stood on the outskirts 
of the crowd, talking to Rose Inglesby. It 


struck them both, as he approached, that he 
looked singularly pale and agitated, even for 
a man whose house was burning down. 

“ Kennon,” he said, hastily, “ do you 
know where Mrs. Inglesby is ? Have you 
heard — have you seen her anywhere ? ” 

“ Mrs. Inglesby ! ” Kennon repeated, start- 
ing, and growing so pale that the pallor of the 
other face was, by contrast, insignificant and 
natural. “ My God — no ! Is she missing ? ” 

“ I can’t find her,” the other answered, 
“ and one of the servants says something 
about seeing her in the library. But she 
can’t have been so foolish — so mad — as to 
stay there until now. Perhaps she has gone 
home. — Miss Inglesby, do you know ? ” 

“ I am sure she has not gone home, Mr. 
Devereux,” Rose answered, trembling with a 
sudden, vague fear. 

The two men looked at each other. In 
all their lives neither of them ever forgot 
that horrible, sickening moment. 

“ Did you leave her in the house ? ” Deve- 
reux sharply asked. 

“ I left her for you to bring out,” Kennon 
as sharply answered. 

It was easy, then, to see how the thing 
occurred. Devereux had not heard of her 
presence in the house when he hastily left 
it. Kennon had quitted it even before that, 
thinking Alice safe under the guardianship 
of the man she had been so eager to save. 
She, on her part, had lingered in the library 
until escape was cut off by the flames. 

“ What are we to do ? ” Devereux asked, 
in the midst of the awful, hushed panic which 
seized them. 

“ You may do what you like,” said Ken- 
non, fiercely, “/am going after her.” 

He turned quickly toward the house, but 
Rose caught his arm. At that moment she 
forgot every thing — her sister-in-law, Deve- 
reux, maidenly reserve, every thing but the 
fear that he would rush madly into danger. 

“0 Mr. Kennon,” she cried, “don’t— 
don’t be rash ! Perhaps Alice has gone 
home ! ” 

Kennon answered nothing ; he only brushed 
her aside as if she had been a butterfly, and 
went on his way. 

Of what ensued he had never more than a 
vague remembrance. He recollected mount- 
ing a fireman’s ladder to the library-window 
— that same window at which Alice had stood 
a few nights before, thinking of him —and 


140 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


climbing into the room already full of dense, 
black smoke. But all this was singularly 
confused ; nothing was clear, until he found 
himself kneeling over a half-suffocated and 
unconscious woman on the sward below. 
Even in her unconsciousness, however, she 
did not relax her clasp of a small picture 
which she held. 

Strangely enough, it was the engraving 
which had hung over Devereux’s writing- 
table. 

How brightly and joyously the next morn- 
ing broke over the blackened ruin of the once 
stately Devereux House ! How gayly the birds 
sang among the roses, how softly the shadows 
flickered over the green turf! How little any 
thing in Nature seemed to reck of the destruc- 
tion which had been wrought between the set- 
ting and rising of the sun ! 

“ And it would be all the same if it had 
been a human life instead of a house 1 ” 
thought Alice Inglesby, as she rose and stood 
at the same window where she had been 
standing when the flames broke forth the 
night before. Her attack of unconsciousness 
had been very slight — for she was not a 
woman prone to fainting-fits — and, thanks to 
a superb constitution, had left no ill eflFects 
beyond a little languor and paleness. There 
might have been more, however, if she had 
not been “kept up” just then by the ficti- 
tious strength of excitement. During her 
vigil of the dawn, she had taken a resolve 
which had been lacking in her vigil of the 
night. Somehow, light had come to her, as 
well as to the world. Things which had been 
conflicting before, seemed thoroughly harmo- 
nious now. Standing there in the bright sun- 
light, her future life showed itself in a new 
aspect. Every thing within her was so 
changed, that the whole outside world seemed 
changed also. Should she ever forget the 
look in Kennon’s eyes, when she opened her 
own on his face, there on the turf last night ? 
It had gone straighter to her heart than if he 
had pleaded with all the passionate eloquence 
that ever stirred a human tongue. And here 
let it be said that, being a woman of sense, 
and not a sentimental fool of any age (for 
sentimental folly is not limited to sixteen), 
she did not for a moment think of attaching 
the least importance to the mere fact of his 
having, in romantic parlance, “saved her 
life.” She knew perfectly well that he would 


have done the same good oflSce quite as will- 
ingly for the cook or the chambermaid. It 
was that look in his eyes which haunted her 
— which seemed to beckon her on to the per- 
petration of the rankest act of folly ever per- 
petrated by a “ woman of the world.” 

Then the thought of Rose and of Harry — 
the two strangely mingled — came back to her 
as they had come the night before. She 
seemed to see the fair, rose-bud beauty of the 
girl, and to feel the same pang of absolutely 
painful pity which she had felt the night be- 
fore, when she saw her falling into the toils 
of the adventurer, who avowedly wooed her 
only for her fortune. Yet the night before 
she had steeled her heart and said, “ Where 
is the remedy ? ” Now she seemed to see the 
remedy. 

“ My life does not matter,” she said aloud. 
“ I have only myself to consider ; and, there- 
fore, why should I consider at all ? Nobody 
can be injured or aggrieved if I throw myself 
away ; while Rose — ah ! it is different with 
her. She has a mother’s heart to be broken. 
Poor, foolish child ! she has even a heart of 
her own to suffer ! — and how it would suffer 
when she learned the truth ! How little she 
will thank me for such consideration,” she 
added, with a short laugh ; “and yet — if she 
only knew it — how infinitesimal is the heart- 
ache or two she will suffer now, to the ocean 
of anguish I will spare her! Am I mad, I 
wonder ? ” she went on, walking to the mir- 
ror and looking at herself. “ I should cer- 
tainly have said so yesterday. But to-day I 
feel inclined to act before sanity comes 
back.” 

Mrs. Inglesby, senior, who, like all the 
rest of the household, felt singularly restless 
and unsettled after the night of adventure, 
had wandered into the garden, and was blank- 
ly surveying the smoking ruins which marked 
the place where the house had so lately stood, 
when, to her amazement, Alice advanced from 
one of the dining-room windows toward her. 

“ My dear, you up ? ” she cried, aghast. 

“Thanks, yes, I have quite recovered,” 
Alice answered. Then, hastening on to cut 
short the remonstrance she felt to be impend- 
ing : “ I saw you from my window, and I hur- 
ried down at once, because I thought I could 
not find a better opportunity for speaking to 
you — in confidence, if you have no objec- 
tion.” 

Of course, Mrs. Inglesby had no objection, 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


141 


and only a few words were necessary to put 
matters on a conddential footing between 
them. The mother’s heart was too sorely 
anxious not to be glad of any counsellor, much 
more of any helper; and Alice spoke with the 
quiet composure of one certain of her own 
power. Before very long, Mrs. Inglesby’s 
worst anxiety was relieved, and her worst 
fears allayed. 

“Find some excuse for detaining Rose, 
this morning, from her usual walk,” said 
Alice, “ and I will guarantee that Laurence 
Kennon shall never trouble her again.” 

“ But — but, my dear, how will you manage 
it?” Mrs. Inglesby cried. 

“Never mind how I shall manage it,” the 
other answered. “ I promise to accomplish 
it — that is all. You will hear the result be- 
fore very long,” she added, as she turned tow- 
ard the house ; “ and I hope you will be a 
little sorry when I say that it will probably 
force me to leave you.” 

“ But — Mr. Devereux ? ” exclaimed the 
elder lady, who now began to have an inkling 
of the truth. 

“ Rose will console Mr. Devereux, I dare 
say,” Alice answered, quietly. And then she 
walked away. 

It would be hard to say how deeply Rose 
was chagrined when her mother made an ab- 
solute demand for her presence that morning, 
and when she found that, without betraying 
a most undue anxiety for her usual walk, she 
must submit to remain at home. Prudence, 
for once, carried the day. She submitted 
with a very bad grace, consoling herself with 
the thought that Kennon was again safely 
domiciled in Northorpe, and that opportuni- 
ties for seeing him were many. So, although 
it is to be feared that Mrs. Inglesby did not 
have a very amiable companion, she still car- 
ried her point, and the field was left clear for 
Alice. 

At the hour when Rose was in the usual 
habit of going out, Alice came down-stairs, 
and left the house. As she descended the 
front steps, she met a servant ascending 
them with a letter in his hand, and, when he 
touched his cap and extended it, she saw that 
it was addressed to herself. In a second, her 
heart gave a great leap. The writing told her 
at once that it was from Devereux, and she 
must needs have been dull beyond the meas- 
ure of ordinary dulness, if she had not at 
once divined the nature of its contents. For 


a moment she stood still, looking at the en- 
velop as it lay in her hand — thinking, per- 
haps, bow hard it was to fight against fate. 
She had thought to put temptation aside, and 
here it met her at the very threshold of her 
new determination. She had thought it would 
be easier to ignore the rich prize which chance 
had thrown into her life than to absolutely 
nerve herself to the point of rejecting it ; yet 
here it was in her hand, and acceptance or 
rejection was now a matter of necessity. She 
would not have been a woman, if the tempta- 
tion had not been great — so great that she 
dared not trust herself to consider it, that she 
dared not enter the house to answer that let- 
ter while still free to answer it as she chose. 
After a minute, she turned to the servant. 

“ I am just going out,” she said. “ I can- 
not stop to read this now. Tell Mr. Devereux 
that I will send an answer as soon as I re- 
turn.” 

The man bowed and departed with this 
consolatory message. Turning hastily in 
the opposite direction, Alice went her way 
toward the square in which Rose usually took 
her morning walk, and where she was sure of 
meeting Kennon. 

When she entered, she strolled up and 
down the paths laid out so trimly between 
plats of green sward ; but no sign of Kennon 
appeared. Several nurses were sitting round 
the fountain that played in the centre of the 
square ; children were trundling hoops up 
and down the walks ; one or two men were 
resting on shady benches, reading morning 
papers ; and a pair of school-girls stroUed 
past, with their heads bent over their French 
grammars. For a short time, Alice was puz- 
zled by Kennon’s absence from the tryst ; 
but then she remembered that she was early, 
and, choosing a walk which was uninvaded, 
she sat down on a bench to wait. Waiting 
is, at all times, tiresome work ; and, being in 
a state of excitement, she found it more than 
usually tiresome this morning. So her hand 
soon found its way to her pocket, and brought 
forth Devereux’s letter. Having brought it 
forth, the next step was to open and read it. 
She had read it twice, and her face was still 
bent over the page, when a ringing step on 
the gravel-path made her look up just as 
Kennon’s shadow fell over her. 

He looked astonished — as, indeed, there 
was good reason that he should be. 

“ I am glad to see you so entirely recor^ 


142 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


ered,” he said, stopping before her, but speak- 
ing very frigidly. “ I feared that the results 
of your adventure last night might prove 
very serious.” 

“ It might have proved serious to some 
people,” she answered. “Fortunately for 
me, however, I do not feel a nervous shock 
very much, and there was little else in that. 
If you had been ten minutes later, though — ” 

“ You might have been beyond recovery,” 
said he, coolly finishing her sentence as she 
paused. He was on his guard now, and not 
even into his eyes flickered any thing more 
than the quietest courtesy. 

“ It was very horrible,” said she, in a low 
voice. “ I never knew before what suffoca- 
tion meant ; but the dense smoke quite over- 
powered me, and I suppose I must have been 
insensible for some time before you came.” 

“ Why did you go there ? ” he asked, un- 
able to repress his curiosity on that point. 

“ There were some very fine pictures 
there,” she answered. “ I wanted to save 
some of them. After all, however, I did not 
succeed in doing so.” 

Then there was a pause. Kennon was 
still standing before her, but he now made a 
movement as if he would have bowed and 
passed on ; only just then she looked up and 
spoke quickly — with the manner of one who 
had nerved herself to an effort. 

“ I believe you have an appointment with 
Rose,” she said. “ She is not here — will not 
be here this morning. If you do not object, 
however, I should like to say a few words to 
you.” 

She pointed to a vacant place on the bench 
beside her, and, after a slight hesitation, Ken- 
non sat down. 

“ I confess I do not understand — ” he be- 
gan ; but she interrupted him. 

“ You do not understand what brought me 
here ? That is very likely ; but, if you will 
be patient a moment, you shall hear. We 
are old friends, and I wish to ask your ad- 
vice. Will you read that ? ” 

She held Devereux’s letter toward him, 
and, with increased surprise, he received it. 
He gave a start as soon as he saw the open- 
ing words, but he did not raise his eyes, and, 
as he read it, she watched him keenly. He 
held his face under tolerably good control, 
but she had once known its least weather- 
sign, and her eyes were not likely to deceive 
her now. Yet, when he finished, he looked 


up and spoke with more passion and less 
bitterness than she had expected. 

“Well,” said he, “tell me now the mean- 
ing of this. You did not use to be cruel for 
the mere sake of cruelty, and I am loath to 
think that you have learned to find pleasure 
in the infliction of pain. Yet your motive 
for giving me such a letter puzzles me. Do 
you want me to go and cut this man’s throat,” 
he went on, with ill-restrained vehemence, 
“that you show me the words of love with 
which he offers you wy inheritance ? ” 

“I told you what I want,” she answered. 
“ I want your advice.” 

“ My advice ? I can give it to you in two 
words — marry him. He is rich, and he is a 
fool — marry him ! ” 

“ He is not a fool,” she said, with some- 
thing like indignation in her voice. “ He is a 
man of whose love any woman might be proud 
— whom any woman might well learn to love. 
That letter ” — she pointed to it as she spoke 
— “has touched me more than I can say. 
Only a fine nature and a gentle heart could 
have written such words as those.” 

. “ Marry him, then ! — for God’s sake, mar- 

ry him ! ” 

She rose from her seat, and took a turn 
down the walk — then came back and stood be- 
fore him, the flickering shadows falling softly 
over her resolute face and earnest eyes. 

“ Laurence,” she said, “ do you remem- 
ber yesterday ? — do you remember telling roe 
that Fate had brought us together once more, 
and that we should not throw away our last 
hope of happiness ? Is yesterday to-day with 
you ? Think for a moment, and then tell me 
— can you say that now ? ” 

In a moment he understood her, and he, 
too, rose to his feet. They faced each other 
steadily in the golden sunlight before he 
pointed to Devereux’s letter. 

“ I say it now as I said it then,” he an- 
swered. “ But, with this before me, I am 
constrained to add — don’t let me stand in 
your way. There is the path to fortune — 
take it now, as you took it before,” 

“ You are unjust!” she cried, passionate- 
ly. “It was no path to fortune that I took 
before. And if I take it now it will only be 
because by such words as these you prove to 
me that Rose Inglesby’s heiress-ship is more 
to you than I am.” 

Her shaft struck home. Adventurer 
though he was, Kennon had still enough of 


MISS INGLESBY’S SISTER-IN-LAW. 


143 


honor and sincerity left to feel it. A dark-red 
flush surged over his face, and, stepping for- 
ward a few feet, he caught her hands. 

“ Tell me what you mean ? ” he demanded, 
almost roughly. “ I am dull at reading rid- 
dles, and this has grown beyond my com- 
prehension. Why have you come here? — 
why have you showed me that letter ? — why 
do you speak to me like this ? You know 
that Rose Inglesby is nothing to me; and 
that you- — are every thing. Do you mean 
that you are willing to give up him for me ? ” 

He pointed once more to the letter — now 
lying on the ground at his feet — and Alice’s 
gaze followed the gesture half sadly. Stoop- 
ing, as if by a sudden impulse, she lifted the 
open sheet of paper, gently folded it, and laid 
it aside on the bench. Then she turned back 
to Kennon, and held out her hand. 

“ Just that way I put him out of my life,” 
she said. “ If you wish to take me, here I 
am.” 

At this point our story ends. At this 
point the sister-in-law, who had entered Miss 
Inglesby’s life, and changed its whole current 
and meaning, went out of it again, and left — 
for a brief space, at least — not a little of deso- 
lation behind her. Of course. Rose was too 
proud to show how deeply and sharply the 
blow had struck ; but, despite her bravery, 
she suffered many a sharp pang, and knew 
many a dreary moment, before it even slightly 
healed. Can we wonder at this ? The girl 
had not given her heart unasked, as some 
girls do, and therefore she had not incurred 
the legitimate penalty of folly. She had 
merely suffered it to be won ; she had merely 
fallen into a snare which might have en- 
trapped an older and wiser woman ; and, in- 
stead of waking slowly, and with a sickening 
consciousness of “ too late ” to this knowl- 
edge, it was forced on her by one sharp 
stroke. It may be said that she had cause 
for gratitude in learning the truth so soon. 


No doubt she had, and no doubt she felt this 
before very long ; but at first — well, suffering 
is apt to make even the wisest unreasonable, 
and it was not strange that at first she only 
felt the sore bitterness of affection wasted 
and trust betrayed. She was very young, 
however ; and the young rally quickly from 
even the deepest blows. After a while, her 
parents took her abroad, and then Alice’s 
prophecy came true. While travelling they 
met Devereux, who — whether to solace his 
disappointment, or to improve his mind — had 
also left Northorpe. Rose thought that he 
improved on acquaintance very decidedly ; 
and, when she returned to America, he ac- 
companied her. The latest news from Nor- 
thorpe leaves no doubt but that they will 
soon be married. 

And Alice? Well — Alice is not unhappy. 
In the first place, she is married to a man 
whom she loves, and, in the second place, she 
is married to a man who loves her. These 
two facts would enable her to bear much, if 
she had much to bear, which, in truth, has 
not been the case. Men of Kennon’s stamp 
do not reform’ suddenly ; but there is at least 
reasonable ground for hoping that with him 
the worst is over, and that he will never fling 
himself quite as recklessly against public 
opinion in the future as in the past. Let 
what will come, however, his wife has girded 
up herself to bear it; and, if gentleness, and 
courage, and devotion, can save him, he may 
yet be saved. With all the troubles that 
have encompassed her, it is not probable that 
Mrs. Kennon has ever regretted her choice. 
From the first she realized how inadequate 
Rose’s strength would have proved for the 
burden laid on her; how terrible on both 
sides would have been the marriage which her 
intervention alone prevented. Feeling this, 
she is recompensed ; but it is doubtful wheth- 
er Miss Inglesby ever has known, or ever 
will know, all that she owes to her sister-in- 
law. 


THE 


END. 



il 

i 





THE STORY OF A SOAR 


I T was a very pleasant group that was as- 
sembled in the drawing-room of Colonel 
Dulaney’s country-house, as the dusk was 
dying away over the wintry hills; and the 
short December day drew rapidly to a close 
— a very sociable group, too, although it was 
composed entirely of ladies. They had shortly 
before come up from dinner, leaving the gen- 
tlemen to the enjoyment of their olives and 
wine, and, finding twilight in possession of 
the room, had unanimously agreed in think- 
ing that it would be a pity to disturb it by 
the invasion of lamps. So the only light in 
the apartment was that given forth by a 
large wood-fire, which illuminated every thing 
in its immediate neighborhood, while shadows 
gathered deeply in all the corners, and the 
silvery moonlight traced pale outlines on the 
carpet at the other end of the long room. 
There is nothing prettier than this soft min- 
gling of twilight and firelight, and the four 
ladies grouped around the hearth-rug made a 
charming picture as the red radiance flick- 
ered over them — shining on the rich silks 
which two of them wore, and flashing back 
from the bright eyes of the other pair, who 
were dressed simply, as became their youth, 
yet elegantly, as became their station. 

The first of the silken-attired ladies was 
lying indolently back in a deep chair, while 
one of her slender hands held a fire-screen of 
Oriental device before a very fair and high- 
bred face — a face over which thirty-five sum- 
mers had passed so lightly as to leave only 
added beauty behind them. This was Mrs. 
Dulaney, the most charming and popular 
hostess of all the gay and hospitable country- 
side ; and whoso caught one gleam of her 
frank blue eyes, never marvelled even once 
10 


concerning either the charm or the popu- 
larity. 

Next to her a bonny brown-haired, brown- 
eyed girl was nestling on an ottoman, with 
her tinted face half shaded by the sweeping 
draperies of her hostess — a dainty, petite 
creature, dressed in a soft blue fabric, the 
Vandyck corsage of which showed the whitest 
neck in the world, and a diamond pendant 
that glittered in the firelight. It was a 
proverb with her friends that Ethel Lamar 
was never silent for five minutes ; but more 
than five minutes had elapsed since her last 
remark, and still the little lady sat quiet — 
her bright brown eyes fastened on the glow- 
ing coals as intently as if she were reading her 
fortune there. 

In the corner of a sofa not far distant sat 
a lady who was dressed in black silk, so 
heavy and stiff that it rustled like armor 
whenever she moved — a lady whose face, in 
repose, was somewhat plain, somewhat severe, 
and marked by the lines of at least fifty years, 
but whose smile, when it came, was so cheery 
and good-humored that it left nothing to be 
desired either in appearance or expression. 
She was the only one of the quartet who 
was busy with any occupation, but her nimble 
fingers were knitting soft, white wool ; and, 
as the firelight glanced back from her pol- 
ished needles, it also gleamed over her firm 
hands, across one of which there ran a deep- 
red scar, exactly like a sabre-stroke. 

On the other end of the same sofa, in an 
attitude of supreme comfort, a stately, idch- 
hued brunette was reclining, with her feet 
doubled up in some inscrutable girl-fashion, 
and her dress sweeping the floor like a royal 
train. Do what she would, Alice Palmer aJ- 


146 


THE STORY OF A SCAR. 


ways looked queenly and imposing, and peo- 
ple who did not know her felt a sort of awe 
of her on this account — an awe absurdly mis- 
placed, since she was in reality as simple and 
unaffected as a child. Of the four ladies, she 
was the only one who was not gazing into the 
fire ; her eyes, as it chanced, were turned on 
her companion’s hands, and her voice was the 
first to break the stillness which had settled 
over them all. 

“ Mrs. Stuart ! ” — she spoke so abruptly 
that the lady who was knitting started at the 
unexpected sound of her own name — “ Mrs. 
Stuart, may I ask you an impertinent ques- 
tion ? ” 

Mrs. Stuart gave one quick glance out of 
her clear hazel eyes, while the smile that 
came over her face showed that the speaker 
was a favorite with her. 

“You may ask me a question if you like, 
my dear,” she said, “ but I shall reserve the 
right to answer it, on account of its imperti- 
nence.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Palmer, with a smile. 
“Well, then, will you please tell us how that 
singular scar came on your hand ? I have 
wanted to ask you often, only I did not like 
to do so. But, if you would not mind telling, 
Ethel and I are desperately curious.” 

Mrs. Stuart looked at Ethel, who blushed ; 
then down at her hand, which seemed to blush 
also, as the red firelight flickered over it ; then 
up at the dark eyes fixed on her with a half- 
laughing appeal. 

“ I have no objection to telling you, my 
dear,” she said. “ Indeed, there is a toler- 
able moral attached, that might do good to 
young ladies who are fond of flirting” (it was 
now Miss Palmer’s turn to blush) ; “ but it is 
rather a long story.” 

“ A long story ! ” cried Ethel Lamar. 
“ Oh, then, dear Mrs. Stuart, it is the very 
thing we want, for you know it will be an age 
till the gentlemen come up, and this is the 
time of all others for story-telling. Please do 
tell us, if you don’t mind.” 

“ So you think you need the moral, too, 
girlkin ? ” 

“ I am sure she does,” said Mrs. Dulaney, 
with a smile. — “ Ah, my little lady, that is a 
very fine look of reproach, but do you think 
I was deaf all through dinner, and I did not 
hear poor Charley — so you know what I 
mean ? ” she broke off, with a laugh, as Miss 
Lamar flushed crimson, — “ Give us the story 


by all means, Mrs. Stuart. I am sure it is 
worth hearing, and I am also sure that these 
young ladies are sadly in need of missionary 
labors.” 

“ Alice, can’t you say a word in our de- 
fence ? ” asked Miss Lamar, peeping over the 
arm of the sofa with her glowing face. 

“Alice has some conscience,” said Mrs. 
Stuart, shortly. “ I should like to hear her 
say a word in her defence when she remembers 
what I overheard in the conservatory this 
morning. That poor Colonel Fairfax! — Well, 
if men will be fools, I suppose women have a 
right to amuse themselves with their folly — 
only take care, my dears, that amusement 
does not run into harm.” 

“ How could it ? ” asked both girls, a little 
curiously. 

“ I’ll tell you how,” answered Mrs. Stuart, 
briefly. 

Then she braced her shoulders back like a 
veteran general, gave her needles a click to- 
gether, and began her story. 

“ Thirty years ago, my dears, I was young 
and handsome. The latter fact seems a little 
strange to you, no doubt; but it was a. fact, 
nevertheless, and I can speak of it now with- 
out vanity. I was a good deal admired, too, 
for, besides being young and handsome, I was 
an heiress — and wealth will bring a woman 
admirers quite independently of her looks, as 
you are all, no doubt, aware. My father was 
a widower, and very fond of me, as I was his 
only child ; so I did pretty much what I 
pleased, and, as it chanced, I ‘pleased’ to 
flirt a great deal. I liked admiration just as 
you like it now, my dears, and I was quite as 
fond of leading my admirers into absurdities, 
and then laughing at them as they stumbled 
out, as you seem to be. I firmly believed that 
men were the legitimate prey of pretty women, 
and I felt no more compassion for them than 
a cat may be supposed to feel for the mouse 
she torments. People — kind, good-natured 
people — called me ‘ a heartless coquette,’ and 
a few of my relations and friends even went 
so far as to remonstrate with me on my con- 
duct ; but I put their remonstrances scornful- 
ly aside, laughed, went my way, and played 
my fascinating game over and over again — 
each time with fresh zest. Yet I should do 
myself injustice if I allowed you to think that 
I was in truth entirely heartless, for there was 
one person with whom I never flirted, whom I 
sincerely loved, and honestly meant to marry 


THE STORY OF A SCAR. 


147 


—after I had finished amusing myself. This 
was my cousin, Harry Wilmot. I had known 
him all my life, and loved him all my life; 
and, although he often expostulated with me 
about my coquetry, I bore with him in quite 
an exemplary manner — at least I thought so 
then. Now I think that it was he who bore 
with me, and that very patiently. I was en- 
gaged to him in a sort of tacit fashion that 
had never been publicly acknowledged, and 
did not bind me in the least. Nothing had 
ever been said about marriage, yet I certainly 
meant to marry him, and I am sure that no- 
body ever was more devoted to another than 
he — poor fellow !— was to me. 

“Well, things had been going on in this 
way for some time, and Harry had to find 
what consolation he could in the number of 
my admirers, when a new family moved into 
our neighborhood, and, being people of evi- 
dent wealth and culture, were received with 
open arms — more especially since they proved 
to be hospitable -and charming in extreme 
measure. Their house was always open, and 
one elegant entertainment was scarcely over 
before another was on the tapis. This fact 
alone insured their popularity. The neighbor- 
hood, having been very stagnant before this 
new life flowed into it, was by no means dis- 
posed to be severely critical with regard to 
the pleasant sources of this life. One and all, 
we adopted the Claverings, and the Claverings 
in turn amused us. We had never been 
amused before, and our gratitude was extreme. 
The Claverings, en masse, soon became the 
county toast. I say en masse, yet the family 
was in truth rather small, consisting only of 
its respective heads, two handsome daughters, 
and (as report soon told us) a son absent in 
Europe. The eldest of these daughters, Isabel 
Clavering, was soon my intimate friend, as 
young ladies reckon friendship, and, as she 
was even more giddy and reckless than I, she 
speedily led me into more mischief than I had 
previously found for myself. Soon sober peo- 
ple began to be scandalized at our proceedings. 
In fact, they were what in these days would 
be called ‘ outrageously fast.’ My dear, good 
father, in whose partial eyes I could do no 
wrong, said little or nothing; but Harry de- 
cidedly disapproved of Miss Clavering, and 
unhesitatingly signified as much. Our first 
serious disagreement was on this score. He 
begged me to give up a friend who did me 
only injury, and I indignantly refused. She 


was my friend, I replied, in that spirited man 
ner which young ladies so much admire, and I 
should not resign her, let people say or do 
their worst. Harry urged the point no further, 
but from that day a barrier of coldness rose 
between us. 

“Of course, you can all guess what came 
next. The son and heir of the Clavering 
house — Edward was his name — came back 
from Europe, bringing a friend with him, and 
Woodlawn (the name of the Clavering villa) 
became more than ever the headquarters of 
gayety and dissipation. I profited in an es- 
pecial manner by this, for the grounds of our 
respective residences immediately adjoined, 
and, when our friendship grew so wai-m that 
we were obliged to see each other every 
day, we found that a short cut through the 
shrubberies was pleasanter and more conven- 
ient than a long ride or drive round by the 
road, so a gate was cut in the wall dividing 
our domain, and of this gate each household 
kept a key. These keys were in frequent de- 
mand, for matters had now reached such a 
piss that, whenever I was not with the Clav- 
erings, some one or other of the Claverings 
was with me. 

“As you may readily imagine, the two 
young men made the already attractive house 
ten times more attractive. They were both 
handsome, and both singularly fascinating — 
especially Edward Clavering, whose face I 
see as clearly now as I ever saw it in reality 
thirty years ago. It was a face of the type 
which I have always liked best — regular fea- 
tures, pale complexion, silken-brown hair, 
beautiful, soft, violet eyes, and the most per- 
fect mouth I ever saw out of marble. In 
figure he was slight and graceful, with ex- 
quisite hands and feet. His friend — Ridge- 
ley, by name — was also exceedingly hand- 
some, and second only to Clavering himself 
in versatile talents and accomplishments, 
while they were both full of that je ne sals 
qnoi of travelled nature which is so peculiarly 
attractive to untravelled natures. “Don’t 
think ’’(here Mrs. Stuart glanced round the 
listening trio, and shook her head very stern- 
ly) “ that I am painting them in these bright 
colors to excuse the story which is to fol- 
low. Not a bit of it. If I met tw'O such 
chevaliers now, I should be able to tell that 
there was something a little bizarre — a slight 
flavor, as it were, of Bohemianism — in their 
style, which might jar on conventional ideas. 


148 


THE STORY OF A SCAR. 


and plant a vague distrust in the convention- 
al mind. But at that time I was in the full 
noonday of the sublime scorn of convention- 
alities, with which every clever young person 
begins the world; so the freshness which 
these strangers brought into my life was all 
the more acceptable because it had just that 
slight flavor of Bohemia. 

“ Perhaps ” (smiling a little) “ you have 
some curiosity to know which of the two I 
flirted with. For the matter of that, I tried 
my hand on both, though Clavering was the 
one I liked best. Certainly he was a charm- 
ing companion, and his flattery— of course, it 
was flattery, though I did not think so then — 
might well have turned the head of an older 
and a wiser woman. To say, in the language 
of the present day, that he was ‘ devoted to 
me,’ is to say very little indeed. He tried 
every art in his power — and those arts were 
many — to make me fall in love with him. I 
did not exactly do that, but I liked him 
thoroughly, and am ashamed to say that I 
encouraged him to the top of his bent. Harry 
stood it all with tolerable quietness for a 
while — I think he wanted to see how far I 
would go, if left entirely to myself — but after 
a time even his patience gave way. I re- 
member perfectly the day on which we finally 
arrived at an open rupture. He came in one 
morning, and, as usual, found Edward Claver- 
ing with me. Instead of paying a short visit, 
and then taking leave as he usually did, in a 
case of this kind, he established himself with 
a book in a corner of the drawing-room, and 
waited until Clavering was, in a measure, 
forced to take Ms departure very much in ad- 
vance of his ordinary time for doing so. Af- 
ter he had bowed himself out, I, who was 
much provoked at losing another hour of ten- 
der and gallant compliments, vouchsafed not 
a word to Harry, but went to the piano, and, 
sitting down, began to play. My cousin read 
his volume of Bacon’s Essays with exemplary 
patience through half an hour of musical 
melange remarkable only for its noise, and it 
was only when I rose at last, and closed the 
piano with a perceptible bang, that he rose, 
too, and came forward. 

“ ‘ If you have no other engagement just 
now, Rachel,’ he said, quietly, ‘ I should like 
to speak to you.’ 

‘“I am at your service,’ said I, ‘ though 
it seems to me that you might have spo- 
ken to me any time within the last two hours.’ 


“ ‘ Might I ? ’ he said. ‘ Well, it seems to 
me that you were occupied with Clavering un- 
til he left, and that you have been occupied 
with the piano ever since. However, I was 
determined to remain until you were at lei- 
sure to give me a little of your time, because 
I want to place a plain alternative before you, 
and ask you a long-deferred and decisive 
question.’ 

“ ‘ With or without my permission, I pre- 
sume!’ said I, with an emphasis which was 
meant to be very sarcastic. 

“‘Yes,’ answered he, gravely, ‘with or 
without your permission — though I scarcely 
think you will withhold it from me.’ 

“ ‘ And pray why not ? ’ demanded I, 
haughtily. 

“ ‘ Because it is to your interest as well as 
mine that the issue should be met and settled,’ 
answered he, looking pale but determined. 

‘ Rachel, you must know as well as I that 
matters cannot go on like this. I have borne 
a great deal from you, through my great love 
for you, but I cannot bear to be treated as a 
toy which you contemptuously fling aside, or 
more contemptuously take up at your pleas- 
ure. I recognize this at last, and I recognize, 
also, that you must choose between me and 
these new associates who have estranged you 
from me.’ 

“ ‘ Estranged me from you, indeed ! ’ said 
I, with disdain. ‘You are mistaken. It is 
your own senseless jealousy that has es- 
tranged us — if we are estranged. We have 
spoken on this subject before,’ continued I, 
loftily, ‘ and I must beg you to understand 
that now, as heretofore, I decline to submit to 
dictation in regard to my friends or associ- 
ates.’ 

“ ‘ Then,’ said my cousin, ‘ you force me 
to place before you the alternative of which I 
have spoken. I do not think there is any 
need for me to tell you how truly and how 
faithfully I have loved you for many years. 
You know it. Yet the time has come when 
you must choose between the acquaintances 
of yesterday and the friend of your youth. 
Rachel, you must give up the Claverings, or 
you must give up me. My cousin — my dear 
cousin — which will you take? You can no 
longer have both.’ 

“For a moment this determined attitude 
of my vassal petrified me ; but I had some- 
thing of a temper, and, if my memory serves 
me right, I stamped my foot, and blazed 


THE STORY OF A SCAR. 


149 


out like a tornado at my long-suffering cous- 
in. 

“ ‘ Are you trying to insult me, Mr. Wil- 
mot, that you dare to come and talk to me 
like this ! — that you dare to put such an al- 
ternative before me ! Am I to give up my 
friends at the mere bidding of your caprice ? 
Pray, tell me ’ (with a withering sneer), ‘ what 
penalty shall I incur if I decline to take ad- 
vantage of the choice which you are kind 
enough to offer me ? ’ 

“ ‘ You will send away from you, perhaps 
forever, a friend who would do any thing to 
serve you, Rachel. Is that a little ? ’ 

“ ‘ I am young, and pretty, and rich,’ 
said I, scornfully. ‘ I shall find plenty of 
other friends.’ 

“‘If you think said he, a little 

hoarsely, ‘ if you can take such a tone as 
that to one who has loved you as long and as 
well as I have done, it is time indeed to go. 
But, 0 Rachel, Rachel ! have you never 
loved me — do you not love me — even in the 
least degree, that you can throw me off like 
a worn glove ? ’ 

“ ‘ I should like you very well if you would 
only let me alone,’ said I, in the tone of one 
from whom a reluctant concession is wrung. 
‘ But you do worry so, Harry, and you have 
taken such an unaccountable dislike to these 
delightful Claverin*gs.’ 

“ ‘Some day you will be able to account 
for the dislike easily enough,’ said he, gloom- 
ily. ‘ But it may be too late then. Rachel, 
for God’s sake, be warned ! — for God’s sake, 
drop those people ! They are not fit associ- 
ates for you.’ 

“ ‘ I won’t hear another word ! ’ cried I, 
stopping my ears. ‘ I won’t listen while my 
friends are abused and slandered.’ 

“ ‘ Rachel,’ said my cousin, growing mo- 
mently paler and more earnest, ‘ would you 
like to know the character of the man who 
has just left you ? ’ 

“ ‘ Not from your lips,’ answ:ered I, angrily. 
* I don’t trust a word that you say of him.’ 

“ ‘ He is an unprincipled adventurer,’ 
Harry went on, steadily, ‘ he is indeed noth- 
ing more nor less than a professional gambler. 
I can prove this.’ 

“ ‘ How, pray ? ’ 

“ ‘ By the testimony of people who have 
seen and known him at other places.’ 

“ ‘ I don’t believe one word of it ! ’ I said, 
stamping my foot again. 


“ ‘ You accuse me of falsehood, then? ’ 

“ ‘ No — but I accuse you of listening to 
his enemies, and of being blinded by jealousy. 
If it is true, why don’t you expose him ? ’ 

“ ‘ Would you give him up if I did ? ’ (this 
very eagerly). 

“ ‘Never! ’ answered I, grandly. ‘ I cling 
to my friends all the more when they are 
slandered and persecuted.’ 

“ ‘Then you see why I don’t expose the 
scoundrel. Can I have the whole county talk- 
ing of your flirtation — God knows they might 
even call it your love-affair 1 — with a profes- 
sional gambler, and chevalier dlindustrie ? I 
am not thinking of nor pleading for myself, 
Rachel, when I pray you to break off all con- 
nection with such a man.’ 

“ ‘ I am not to be dictated to,’ said I, 
drawing back the hands which he attempted 
to take, ‘ and I positively decline to surrender 
a pleasant friend because you see fit to make 
vague accusations against him.’ 

“ ‘ I shall see if your father thinks them 
vague,’ said he. 

“ ‘ Do 1 ’ answered I, scornfully. ‘ The role 
af tale-bearer suits you so admirably that you 
must allow me to congratulate you on your 
new mHier^ and to wish you good -morning ! ’ 

“ With that I courtesied grandly, and swept 
out of the room, leaving Harry still standing 
on the floor. A few minutes later, however, 
I had the satisfaction of hearing him gallop 
from the front-door, and I knew that he was 
gone — never to come back again, as he had 
done for so many happy years. Was Edward 
Clavering (whom I had not by any means 
made up my mind to marry) worth quite such 
a sacriflce as this ? Even with all my ruffled 
pride to help me, I was not quite able to an- 
swer that question in the affirmative. 

“ I managed, however, to console myself 
very well with Edward Clavering. • In the 
week which followed Harry’s unusual asser- 
tion of himself, and consequent departure 
from the scene of action, I was more than 
ever at Woodlawn (for he did not fulfil his 
threat of speaking to papa ; partly, as I 
learned afterward,, because he was busy col- 
lecting tangible proof of Clavering’s antece- 
dents), and my wilful feet went daily nearer 
and nearer the verge of that fateful precipice 
of love, down which many women tumble 
headlong into misery. 

“ To let you understand exactly how near I 
was to it, I must tell you that, on a certain lovely 


150 


THE STORY OF A SCAR. 


Indian summer afternoon, when Clavering and 
( were out riding, he formally addressed me 
— having seen, no doubt, that he might safe- 
ly venture to do so. Now, of course I don’t 
need to tell you that it is not every man who 
Knows how to make a declaration, which, of 
Itself, will go half-way toward winning a wom- 
an’s heart ; in fact, the art of doing so is 
more rare than any other with which I am ac- 
quainted. Clavering’s proposal was simply 
perfect — passionate, graceful, chivalrous, all 
and more than all that the most sensitive 
fancy could have demanded, or the most sensi- 
tive taste sanctioned. If men would only com- 
prehend that a woman’s fancy can be shocked, 
and a woman’s taste outraged, gaucherie 
such occasions, I am inclined to think that 
there might be fewer untoward wooings. Why 
I did not accept my suitor on the spot, I don’t 
know, unless it was that my cousin’s warning 
had, after all, left an impression on my mind, 
and inspired me with a vague distrust of this 
accomplished gentleman, which made me 
hesitate when it came to the actual point of 
putting all my future life into his hands. At 
all events, I did hesitate — I paused — wavered 
— finally asked for time to consider his offer. 
He yielded very gracefully to this request, 
and, having listened with tacit favor to his 
suit, I was pledged to give an early and de- 
cisive answer. 

“ The next day was stormy, and I did not 
go to Woodlawn — neither did any of the 
Claverings come to me. It was a day of such 
fierce rain and tempest as belongs only to the 
autumn, and, since I was entirely alone, I did 
not pass a very cheerful time. My father was 
at that time a judge on the bench of the Su- 
preme Court of the State, but he did legal 
business for his friends occasionally, and it 
chanced that he had been summoned, early 
that morning, to make the will of a dying 
man — a very intimate associate, who lived a 
few miles distant. As the day advanced, I 
saw clearly that he could not return before 
nightfall — nor after it either, for that matter. 
The streams intervening between us would 
be too high for him to cross, I felt sure, and, 
tf the rain continued, he might be water- 
bound for several days. I knew he would 
dislike this exceedingly, for he never left me 
alone when he could possibly avoid it, and on 
the present occasion he would be particularly 
loath to do so, since there chanced at that 
time to be a deposit of unusual value in the 


house. Not long before, a very wealthy and 
eccentric old lady of the neighborhood had 
died, and left my father executor of a will in 
which she bequeathed all her property, and 
especially all her jewels (for, by a singular 
freak, she had invested to the amount of half 
her fortune in precious stones), to him, to be 
held in trust for the heir or heirs of a long- 
lost (and everybody said long - dead) son. 
These jewels my father had for some time 
kept in his own possession, meaning to take 
them to a city, the first time he went, and 
lodge them in a bank. You may think that 
it was very imprudent to have kept jewels to 
the amount of'a hundred thousand dollars in 
an ordinary country-house for any length of 
time ; but, in those days, and in quiet country 
regions, robbery was almost wholly unknown, 
and T have visited many houses whei’e neither 
the plate-closet nor the jewel-box was consid- 
ered worth the trouble of a lock. If these 
jewels had been his own, my father would 
have felt no anxiety about them ; but, be- 
cause they had been placed in his hands as a 
trust, he had been a little nervous, and wished 
to put them in safer keeping than his own. 
This had been deferred from time to time, 
however; and now, on this stormy Novem- 
ber evening, he was on one side of a swollen 
stream, and I on the other, with the jew’els of 
old Mrs. Hardie in my sole guardianship. 

“ I confess, however, that the thought of 
the jewels did not disquiet me very much. I 
only thought how lonely and eiinuyee I was. 
So I wrote a note, begging Isabel Clavering 
to come and stay with me, giving the jewnls 
as an excuse why I could not leave the house 
entirely unprotected. The note was answ'ered, 
not by Isabel, but by Edward. He had come 
to bring his sister’s regrets — she was quite 
unwell, and could not venture through the 
rain ; but could not / be prevailed upon to 
come over and stay with her ? This proposal 
was only too tempting to me, but I could not 
reconcile it to my conscience to leave the 
jewelis ; so I told Edward that I could not 
go. He urged me to do so — purged me strong, 
ly and repeatedly — but I could be very obsti- 
nate when I chose, so I resolutely declined ; 
and at last, as night was closing and the 
storm increasing, he was obliged to leave 
without me. Reluctantly enough, he bade 
me good-evening, and started to leave the 
room, when suddenly he stopped, turned, and 
came back to where I sat by the fire. 


THE STORY OF A SCAR. 


151 


“ ‘ Rachel,’ he said, in a low, passionate 
voice, ‘ when am I to have my answer ? ’ 

“Now, this question provoked me. I was 
by no means a lovesick maiden, in whose 
eyes my lover could do no wrong, but a sensi- 
tive, fastidious woman, whose fancy was only 
too easily repelled by the slightest solecism 
of taste or chivalry. The circumstances of 
time and place branded the question as a pi’e- 
sumption in my opinion, and I answered it 
haughtily and indifferently : 

“ ‘ If you choose to wait for my answer, 
Mr. Clavering, you can have it when I have 
made up my mind ; if not, you can take it 
now.’ 

“ ‘ And suppose I take it now ? ’ said he, 
a little hoarsely. 

“ I looked up into his eyes, with a flash, 
I am sure, in my own. They were steadfast, 
determined, and anxious to a degree that 
startled me. His face, too, was pale and set, 
I thought, as the changeful firelight flickered 
over it. Still, I was angry — it seemed as if 
he took advantage of my loneliness to press 
his point in this manner. 

“ ‘ If you take your answer now,’ said I, 
coldly, ‘ you may not find it very much to 
your taste. It is, unequivocally. No ! ’ 

“ ‘ Rachel ! ’ 

“ The tone in which he uttered this excla- 
mation startled me even more than his eyes 
had done. It was violent; it was almost 
menacing; and for the first time I realized 
bow late it had become, and how entirely 
alone I was. I rose to my feet and looked — 
or endeavored to look — like a tragedy 
queen. 

“ ‘ Have you forgotten yourself, Mr. Clav- 
ering, or have you forgotten who I am, that 
you venture to address me in such a manner 
as this ? ’ 

“ ‘ No,’ answered he, trying evidently to 
collect himself. ‘ I remember both perfectly. 
You have answered my presumption very 
well, Miss Huntingdon, and I accept your 
decision. It would be ungentlemanly, I pre- 
sume, to hint that you may ever regret it. 
With my best wishes for your future hap- 
piness, I have the honor to bid you good- 
evening.’ 

“ He bowed here, and, without offering to 
touch ray ’hand, left the room. The next 
moment I saw him cross the veranda, and 
take the dripping path which led through the 
shrubberies to the gate communicating with 


the Clavering domain, of which I have al- 
ready spoken. 

“ Then I sat down — I confess a little 
stunned by this brief and most unexpected 
scene. What had so suddenly transformed 
the most gallant and tender of suitors I could 
not imagine, and my amazement was so great 
that for a time it certainly subordinated every 
other feeling. I had no doubt of my own 
power to lure him back if I wanted him — an 
important if already in my reflections — but 
what could possibly have changed him so 
completely in so short a time ? Had he only 
been playing a part, and now, for some un- 
known reason, had it become worth his while 
to throw off the mask ? Try as I would, I 
could find no clew to the enigma which satis- 
fied me, and at last I started from my thoughts 
to find the room quite dark, and the fire gone 
down to a bed of ashes and coals. 

“ It is not a cheerful thing to be alone in 
an isolated country-house at six p. m. on a 
raiily November evening. I shivered, and 
rang the bell for lights. ‘ Make up the fire, 
John,’ I said to the servant who brought 
them, ‘ and you must sleep in the dining- 
room to-night. PapA cannot get back, I am 
sure.’ Having given this order, I felt some- 
what relieved, for John was large enough and 
had pluck enough to be a match for any or- 
dinary burglar. Of course, he did not fancy 
exchanging his usual comfortable quarters for 
a shake-down in the dining-room, but he said, 
‘ Yes’m,’ with a due amount of respect, and 
then retired, leaving me to face the evening 
as best I could. 

“I faced it very badly. Those anxious 
eyes of Edward Clavering’s gazed at me from 
every page I attempted to read, and that 
white, set face of his, seemed to lurk in the 
shadows that gathered about the corners of 
the room. I was heartily glad when nine 
o’clock struck, and I was free to go to bed 
without feeling ashamed of myself for keep- 
ing ‘ poultry-hours.’ I rang for my maid, and 
astonished her by saying that I would sleep 
in papa’s room, and that she might bring my 
toilet apparatus down to that apartment, 
whiclh was on the ground-floor. I must do 
myself the justice to say that some vaguely- 
heroic idea of protecting the jewels was in 
my head, though I scarcely think it would 
have availed to make me change my domicile, 
if a very clear and unheroic idea of being 
protected by John — the dining-room was just 


152 


THE STORY OF A SCAR. 


across the hall from papa’s room — had not 
aided and abetted it. 

“Now you must understand that, in the 
original plan of the house, papa’s room had 
been meant for a smokiug-deu, but he pre- 
ferred a chamber on the ground-floor, and so 
had chosen this apartment, for which he said 
there was ‘ no rational use.’ It had two doors, 
one opening on the hall, the other on a side- 
piazza, from which a path led stableward. 
Both of these doors had locks ; and the ease 
with which any ordinary lock gives way at 
the ‘ open-sesame ’ touch of professional fin- 
gers was at that time a fact which had never 
been brought to the realization of the rustic 
mind. I remember looking round, after I was 
in bed, and thinking how secure every thing 
was — the doors safely locked, the shutters 
closed with springs, and not an avenue of 
entrance left by which a mouse could profit. 
I gazed with complacent gratulation at the 
safe at the farther end of the room — the safe 
sitting modestly back in a corner, and giving 
no sign of the golden treasure within it — as I 
thought how emphatically we were burglar- 
proof. Nevertheless, seeing the firelight 
gleam on a dagger of papa’s — a pretty, fan- 
ciful, Albanian trifle, which he had picked up 
in some of his Eastern rambles — I thought 1 
might as well put it within convenient reach, 
so springing out of bed, I ran across the 
floor, and took it down from its place over 
the mantel. I remember distinctly how I 
felt its cold, keen edge as I went back ; then, 
slipping it under my pillow, I extinguished 
the light and dropped comfortably into sleep. 

“ I do not know how long I slept, but I 
think it was about midnight when I waked 
suddenly with a strange sense of terror, a 
blind instinct of danger, which made the 
blood settle like ice around my heart. My 
senses did not, as is usually the case, strug- 
gle in the dim border-land between sleep and 
waking, but I was roused to perfect con- 
sciousness in an instant — consciousness as 
complete and clear as that which I enjoy at 
this moment. As well as I can recollect, my 
first physical impression was of a strange 
heaviness, together with a subtile odor which 
I knew perfectly, yet could not identify. 
When I lifted a little the lids which seemed 
held down by some indefinable weight, I saw 
that a light was in the chamber, and that a 
man, wearing a black mask, held a bottle of 
chloroform to my nostrils, while another, also 


masked, knelt before the safe at the farther 
end of the room. 

“ You wonder, perhaps, that I did not 
faint, realizing my utter helplessness. I have 
sometimes wondered myself; but the truth is, 
that we rarely give way under pressure of 
great emergencies. On the contrary, I think 
we hardly know our own capabilities until we 
have been tried in some such manner. I 
closed my eyes after that one glance, and lay 
perfectly motionless, feeling instinctively that 
to feign unconsciousness was the only re- 
source, the only hope in such peril as this. 
There was nothing to be done. To move, to 
attempt to cry aloud, was to seal my death- 
warrant, for the same hand which was hold- 
ing the chloroform to my nostril could have 
been on my throat before more than a gurgle 
had been uttered. I did not move a muscle, 
therefore ; I even regulated my breathing to 
simulate the soft uniformity of slumber. You 
think you could not have done as much ? ” 
(A murmur had risen from the audience here.) 
“ Take my word for it, the most timid woman 
here would have done just as I did. You see 
there was no alternative. Death hung over 
me on a hair, and in mortal peril it is said 
that even cowards are brave. With all my 
acting, my heart beat so madly that I feared 
it would betray me, and there are no words 
to tell what agonizing thoughts were mean- 
while surging in my brain. I knew that with 
every breath I inhaled the powerful antes- 
thetic, and the terror of unconsciousness 
grew momently greater. What could I do ? 
0 God ! what could I do ? I remember think- 
ing little besides this while I lay motion- 
less. 

“ I lived an age of horror in the few min- 
utes that elapsed after my waking, until the 
voice of the burglar who was forcing the safe 
said something — so low and muffled that I did 
not catch it — which summoned his companion 
to him. I felt that the latter hesitated a mo- 
ment and looked at me. Then, as I supposed, 
concluding that I was ‘ safe,’ he M’ithdrew the 
bottle ; the next instant a handkerchief, satu- 
rated in the chloroform, was laid across my 
mouth and nose — after which, with light, 
stealthy steps, he moved away. 

“ I heard it all, with senses sharpened to 
tenfold their usual acuteness ; and, when he 
was once safely gone, I moved the handker- 
chief slightly — just enough to allow me a little 
pure air, instead of the stifling fumes of thf 












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“ I put up my hand very softly, and drew the dagger from under my pillow. 






THE STORY OF A SCAR. 


153 


chloroform — and then I asked myself, wildly 
and desperately, if there was nothing I could 
do — if bitter necessity compelled me to lie 
there and watch this daring robbery without 
lifting a hand to protect the property intrusted 
to my father’s honor. You will say that such 
a question, in my position, was utter madness, 
and so it would have seemed to me at any 
other time. But at that moment I forgot my 
weakness, my utter helplessness, in the burn- 
ing sense of outrage which came over me as 
strongly as if I had been a very Samson. 
Watching the two burglars from under my 
eyelids, I saw the door of the safe (which was, 
in truth, little more than a strong box) yield 
to their efforts, and swing back. Was there 
nothing I could do, I asked myself again, in 
utter despair — and, as I asked it, I thought of 
the dagger under my pillow ! 

“ I say that I thought of it, but I need 
scarcely add that an instant’s consideration 
told me that no possible weapon could make 
me a match for two men, even if desperation 
lent me courage enough to face them. Still I 
put up my hand very softly, and drew the 
dagger from under my pillow — there being 
something singularly reassuring in the cold 
steel of its blade. It astonishes me yet to re- 
member how cool I was all this time — so cool 
that I was sure my hand would not tremble if 
the safety of my life should depend upon one 
stroke of the poniard which I grasped as my 
only friend and refuge. I was naturally anx- 
ious to avoid any such unequal contest — both 
for my own sake, and that of the men whom I 
could not help remembering were men, with 
souls to be sent into eternity. I was, how- 
ever, determined to save the jewels if possi- 
ble ; and, strange as it may seem, a plan of es- 
cape at last suggested itself to me — a reckless 
plan enough, as you may judge. As I have 
said, the safe was at the other end of the 
room from the bed, and the two burglars, in 
stooping over it, had turned their backs on 
me. The door leading into the hall was mid- 
way between the two ends of the room. If I 
could once reach it unobserved, I could escape 
and give the alarm. 

“ It was a forlorn hope, but I determined 
to try it. Perhaps I should not have ventured 
to do so if I had not been certain of at least 
one ally the moment I opened the door. This 
was a large mastiff, named Caesar. He was a 
great favorite with papa, and always slept on 
a mat in the hall His instinct told him that 1 


something was wrong, and for some time past 
I had heard him scratching and whining at 
the door. Once aroused, I knew that no bull- 
dog could surpass him for strength, no blood- 
hound for ferocity, and so — if the worst came 
to the worst after the door was opened — I 
knew that Csesar was certainly good for one 
burglar, and perhaps — if God gave me quick- 
ness and strength when both were needed — I 
and my dagger might be good for another. 

“ Chance, and the absorbed preoccupation 
of the two men, favored me. One short 
prayer — how fervent you can never tell unless 
you are placed in some such strait — and, step- 
ping out of bed with the dagger in my hand, 
I took the first steps, in my bare feet, on the 
thickly-carpeted floor. They did not notice 
me. All around them were gleaming masses 
of plate and jewelry. I crossed the floor 
swiftly, noiselessly, and with perfect safety. 
But, when my hand touched the lock of the 
door, it gave a sharp click, which made them 
both start and turn. A single glance was 
enough. With an oath I shall never forget, 
one of them strode toward me. 

“ Don’t expect me to describe the scene 
that followed — I could not, if my life de- 
pended on it. I only know that, before I 
could unfasten the door, I was in the grasp 
of a man, whose hands might have been made 
of iron from the manner in which they caught 
me, and the manner in which I felt them in 
every fibre. The vast majority of women (in 
our class of life) go to their graves without 
ever having had cause to realize the brute 
dominion of man — when he chooses to use the 
strength given him by his Maker — over the 
frail physique of woman. In those days I was 
young, healthy, well developed, and somewhat 
vain of my strength ; yet I was like a reed in 
that man’s hands. Not even despair and 
loathing horror could give me energy enough 
to free myself from a grasp which felt as if it 
might crush every bone in my body. Half 
suffocated as I was, I had power, however, to 
raise my voice and give one cry — the utter- 
ance of mortal extremity and terror. In a 
second a hand was over my mouth, and an- 
other at my throat. ‘ Try that again, and you 
are a dead woman in two minutes ! ’ the bur- 
glar hissed in my ear. The close grip on my 
throat rendered this more than a threat, and 
an instinct — the instinct that causes even the 
weakest to fight for life — made me lift the hand 
which was now free, and plunge the dagger 


154 


THE STORY OF A SOAR. 


(which he had been on the point of wresting 
from me when I screamed) up to the hilt in 
his body ! 

“ He dropped his hands from my throat, 
and, with one deep groan, staggered back. 
As he did so, I turned, and, with wildly-ex- 
cited fingers, tore open the door. Then, with 
a deep, menacing growl, such as I never 
heard before, and hope never to hear again, 
Caesar rushed past me. I heard cries — oaths 
— the sound of fierce struggling — the deep 
bass mutter of the dog — as I fled from the 
room, but I dared not pause, and bursting 
into the dining-room, I faced John, whom my 
scream and the noise of the dog had at last 
aroused. 

“ In a few minutes the only other man of 
the establishment — the gardener — was wak- 
ened ; and, armed with any available weapons 
that came to hand, the two men entered the 
now ominously silent room. Despite their 
entreaties, I followed them, and — shall I ever 
forget the scene which greeted me ! There 
was the open safe, with a lantern on the floor 
beside it, the light flashing back from all the 
shining plate and dazzling jewels, which cov- 
ered the carpet. Near the door — within five 
paces of where I had stood — lay the burglar 
who had caught me ; and near the safe — with 
Caesar crouching on his chest — was the other. 
The two servants went at once to draw off the 
dog, and, while they did this, I bent to see if 
the man near me were dead or only wounded. 
I found that he was still living, though he had 
evidently tried to rise, and fainted from pain 
or loss of blood. Anxious to give him air 
sufficient for recovery, I lifted the crape mask 
from his face, and, as God sees and hears me, 
this midnight robber — this thief whom I had 
stabbed as an outlaw, in self-defence — proved 
to be no other than Edward Clavering, my 
father’s constant guest, my own devoted 
lover ! 

“ I knelt over him as if I had been turned 
to stone — striving vainly to realize the hide- 
ous horror of the discovery — when a stifled 
cry from John fell on my ear. 

“ ‘ Good God ! ’ I heard him exclaim. 
‘Sandy, here’s Mr. Ridgeley — and he's stone 
dead ! ’ 

“ They say that after this I uttered a cry — 
the second which had passed my lips — and 
fell back into a deep swoon. I only know 
that those words are the last I remember of 
that hideous night.” 


There was silence with the quartet for 
some time after Mrs. Stuart reached this 
tragic climax of her story ; but, to make it 
satisfactorily complete, there was more yet to 
be told ; and, after waiting as long as was 
possible. Miss Palmer at last hazarded a ques- 
tion. 

“ Was he quite dead, Mrs. Stuart ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Mrs. Stuart, speaking 
with great effort. “ Caesar had done his work 
well. The wretched man never breathed af- 
ter those strong teeth were once fastened in 
his tliroat. Edward Clavering, however, re- 
covered, and, although I never saw him after- 
ward, papa told me that he had confessed 
every thing with regard to himself and his mo- 
tives. The whole family were adventurers, 
and he was — as Harry had declared — a pro- 
fessional gambler and chevalier d'industrie. 
Fortune had for some time been at a very low 
ebb with him, and to marry me was his last 
hope of retrieving his affairs. One or two 
people who knew his character had, however, 
chanced to come into the neighborhood of the 
county, and he was aware that exposure 
might overtake him any day or hour. Under 
these circumstances he grew desperate ; and, 
knowing that there was very little hope of my 
father’s consenting to the marriage (even if I 
should accept his proposal), he determined 
upon the bold stroke of ‘ securing ’ Mrs. Har- 
die’s jewels. The plan had presented itself 
to him when he heard of my father’s absence, 
and it was to facilitate the matter that he had 
urged me so strongly to leave the house. It 
was also on this account that he had brought 
matters to a decided issue with regard to his 
suit. He had always distrusted the marks of 
favor which I accorded to him ; for my repu- 
tation as a coquette was wide-spread, and he 
had no idea of giving up a certain good (the 
jewels) for the uncertain good of being played 
with a little longer by an accomplished flirt. 
Still, if I had not been so decided — if I had 
given him any hope of my eventually saying 
‘Yes’ — everything might have been differ- 
ent. The unfortunate Ridgeley would not 
have been led to his death, and the exposure 
when it came would not have been so open 
and so terrible. One thing, however, is cer- 
tain ; his purpose would have been safely 
achieved — the jewels would have been lost, 
and my father’s fortune, if not credit, serious- 
ly impaired, but for my whim of sleeping 
down-stairs. I alone had the credit of pre* 


THE STORY OF A SCAR. 


155 


venting the robbery, and it was not until I 
waked from my long and death-like swoon 
that I found at how much cost to myself 
this credit had been gained. I was ill — I re- 
mained ill for weeks — and this hand ” (she 
held up the one across the white surface of 
(Which the long, red scar was traced) “ had 
been laid open to the bone by the keen edge 
of the dagger to which I clung in that short, 
close struggle. 

“ Was I cured of flirting ? I think I may 
safely say that I was ; but I never married 
Harry Wilmot, though we were good friends 
and cousins to the day of his death. In this 
respect, at least, you see, the whole course of 
my life was changed by the story I have told 
you.” 

The steady voice of the narrator sank into 
silence, the bright blaze of the fire had died 
down to a soft glow which did little more than 
reveal faint outlines of the four ladies grouped 
around it, and, as the gloom of twilight deep- 
ened into night, the large room looked almost 
eerie enough for a ghost-scene. The tragic 
narrative to which they had just listened had 
sobered the audience exceedingly, and no 
voice broke the stillness until there came 
sounds — footsteps and voices on the stair — 
which told that the gentlemen were coming 
up. Then there was something of a commo- 
tion. Mrs. Dulaney rang for lights. Miss 
Palmer’s pretty feet resumed their proper 
place on the floor. Miss Lamar rose from her 
lowly seat, and sank into a deep chair some- 
what outside the circle and in the shade. 
Here a tall, handsome gentleman found her 
when he glanced round eagerly for his “ nut- 
brown mayde.” 


“ Why are you looking so pensive ? ” he 
asked, leaning over the back of her chair. 
“ Have you been frightening each other with 
ghost-stories here in the dark ? ” 

She threw her head back and looked up at 
him with her liquid-brown eyes. Wretched 
little sinner that she was, she knew only too 
well how these same eyes were treacherous 
lakes into the depths of which men’s hearts 
tumbled unawares and were heard of no more. 

“Ghost-stories?” she repeated. “No, 
indeed ! We have had something much more 
thrilling than a ghost-story, because it was 
true — a story of robbery, and danger, and 
courage, and death ! With a moral, too ! ” 

“ Indeed ! And may I ask what the moral 
was ? — to get patent locks, and keep fire-arms 
by your bed ? ” 

“No. The moral was less commonplace 
— at least in connection with robbery. It was 
highly edifying, I assure you, for it was this 
— beware of flirtation ! ” 

He elevated his eyebrows and laughed. 

“ Is it possible ? I think I shall beg for 
the story, for I cannot imagine two more in- 
congruous ideas than burglary and flirtation. 
And are we to have a feminine Saul among 
the prophets — do you mean to swear off from 
your favorite amusement?” 

“Swear off! As if I ever flirted! or, as 
if my poor shots could hurt anybody, if I 
did ! ” 

“ Don’t lay that ‘ flattering unction to your 
soul,’ ” said he, in a whisper. “Your shots 
have crippled one bird for life, and Heaven 
only knows what you mean to do with him.” 

“Put him in my game-bag, of course,” 
she answered, with a wicked glance. 


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A DOUBT. 


CHAPTER I. , 

T he day was bright, still, and balmy. 

Though January had told but a third 
of his span of days. Nature was already be- 
ginning to awake from her winter sleep. 
Flowers were blooming, bees were humming, 
and birds were singing gayly amid the ever- 
green shrubs, in the large garden attached to 
one of the handsomest private residences in 
the town of J . All was sunny and cheer- 

ful without doors ; all was bustle .and excite- 
ment within. It was the eve of the wedding- 
day of the only child and heiress of the 
house, and, in anticipation of the important 
event, all heads and hands were busy with 
preparations. 

Mrs. Blount, the lady of the mansion, was 
a little too busy for the comfort of her ser- 
vants and assistants. She was here, there, 
everywhere ; in the store-room, where the 
process of cake-making, cake-decorating, and 
the general manufacture of domestic confec- 
tions, was in full tide — up-stairs, down-stairs — 
even in the kitchen, with questions, sugges- 
tions, directions, that infinitely disgusted the 
cook — hindering everybody, helping nobody, 
until the very rustle of her silk dress be- 
came an abomination in the ears of the much- 
tried household. The confectioner’s man, 
who was in command of the'store-room, had 
again and again respectfully represented that 
he “ would have all right, without her troub- 
ling herself — she might depend that!" 

— the cook had exclaimed each time that the 
brown silk invaded her domain, “Now don’t 
you be botherin’, mistiss, and making yourself 
uneasy. You know I’m hound to have every 
thing fust-rate for Miss Emmy’s weddin’ 


breakfast ! ” — and her own maid had protest- 
ed solemnly against her “ breaking herself 
down this way, instead of keeping quiet, so 
as to be well to-morrow.” But remonstrances 
were vain. Mrs. Blount could not keep quiet. 
Her spirits were at that altitude of exhila- 
ration which must effervesce in restless mo- 
tion. It was not only that she enjoyed in- 
tensely the fuss, excitement, and eclat of her 
daughter’s marriage with one of the richest, 
handsomest, and most fashionable men of 

J ; the crown of her content was, that 

she herself had “ made the match ; ” that, but 
for her, it “ never would have been a match.” 
And so, happy and self - congratulating, she 
wandered about, blandly unconscious of how 
much she was in everybody’s way, and how 
heartily everybody was wishing her at the an- 
tipodes. 

There were two rooms in the house, how- 
ever, which, in all her wanderings, she left un- 
invaded. One of these was the chamber of 
her daughter, the bride-elect; the other was 
the private room of her husband — a small 
apartment adjoining the library — which en- 
joyed the prescriptive right of exemption 
from intrusion. 

In this latter, Mr. Blount was now sitting, 
on a sofa drawn near to the fire. He had 
just turned from the library-table at his el- 
bow, where he had been writing letters, and, 
leaning forward, took up the poker, and be- 
gan to stir the fire mechanically. Mr. Blount 
was a man whose life was exclusively of the 
world. He ate, he slept, he entertained his 
friends, he read, wrote, and studied, under his 
own roof, and he paid all the bills his wife 
presented to him, without question or com- 
ment ; but that was all. So far as any of the 


158 


A DOUBT. 


usual influences of home were concerned, he 
might as well have been the celibate of an 
anchoret’s cell. He had early in his married 
life discovered that there was nothing in 
common between himself and the vain, friv- 
olous woman whom he had made his wife ; 
for, though the world occupied an equal place 
in her regard as in his own, it was in a very 
different form. He was intellectual, energet- 
ic, ambitious, while she was a mere butterfly 
of fashion ; far the more selfish and heartless, 
inasmuch as she was by far the most shallow 
nature of the two. 

On the present family occasion, there was 
as little harmony of sentiment as usual be- 
tween this ill-matched pair. As Mr. Blount 
bent over, and absently stirred the coals, his 
face, so far from exhibiting the expression of 
beatified content which his wife’s counte- 
nance was bearing about, was very clouded. 
His eye was thoughtful, his brows somewhat 
contracted, and his lips compressed. He was 
thinking of an appeal which his daughter, to 
his great astonishment, had addressed to him 
the night before ; and, as he thought, his 
face grew darker and darker — for he felt 
that, without any fault of his own, he occu- 
pied a very embarrassing and painful posi- 
tion ; and the sense of this was not less dis- 
agreeable than novel to him. He had prom- 
ised his daughter that he would consider the 
matter which she had so abruptly forced upon 
his attention, and he had kept his word — 
having spent the greater part of the night 
revolving it in his mind. But, look at the 
question as he would, he could find no satis- 
factory solution of the difficulty. For once, 
his keen intellect, and usual fertility of re- 
source, were entirely at fault. He was hope- 
lessly perplexed. 

While he was still ruminating the subject, 
there was a low knock at the door. He 
hesitated a moment before he said, “ Come 
in,” and, for the first time in his life, was 
conscious of a positive sense of cowardice, as 
he heard the door open and shut, and a slight, 
quick step crossing the floor. It was not un- 
til this step paused beside him, that he turned 
and looked up. 

A young girl, whose slehder figure and 
delicate blond beauty gave her an almost 
painful appearance of fragility, was standing 
with feverishly-varying color, her eager gaze 
fastened upon him. At the first glimpse of 
his countenance, she seemed to read the de- 


cision at that instant forming in his mind, 
and the lovely half-blushes, that were coming 
and going momently in her cheek, faded sud- 
denly, leaving it as stony white as freshly- 
carved alabaster. 

“ Papa, 0 papa ! ” she cried, without w^ait- 
ing for him to speak, “ I cannot, cannot mar- 
ry him ! Oh, have mercy on me, and send 
him away ! I cannot, cannot marry him ! ” 

She pressed her hands down one upon 
the other, on the edge of the table by which 
she stood, as if to steady herself — for she was 
trembling from head to foot — pressed them so 
hard, that they were almost as bloodless as 
her face ; and there was a strange look of 
terror and anguish in her eyes, while her 
voice had the very wail of despair in its ac- 
cents. 

“ My daughter,” said Mr. Blount, gravely 
— taking her hands, he drew her toward him, 
and placed her on the sofa by his side — “ my 
daughter, sit down and listen to what I have 
to say.” 

“ 0 papa ! 0 papa ! ” she gasped hyster- 

ically, “ you do not mean — you cannot be so 
cruel as to mean — ” 

“ Don’t excite yourself in this violent 
manner,” said her father, whose face had be- 
come a shade paler than usual. “Try and 
control this agitation — try and listen to me, 
Emily.” 

He was still holding her hands, but by 
a sudden effort she released them from 
his grasp, and began wringing them franti- 
cally. 

“ Tell me — only tell me,” she cried, “ that 
you will save me from this worse than death ! 
That is all I ask ! ” 

“ I can tell you nothing until you are capa- 
ble of listening to reason, my daughter,” he 
answered, with the same gentle gravity as wdien 
he spoke first. 

“ Eeason ! ” exclaimed she, passionately. 
Then looking at his face, and reading its ex- 
pression, she added more quietly : “ Forgive 
me for distressing you so much ! I will try to 
listen to you.” 

He put his hand on the soft brown hair 
that w^as pushed carelessly back from her 
face, flowing in disordered ringlets on her 
shoulders, and smoothed it softly for a mo- 
ment, before he said : 

“ Emily, if you had told me, at the time 
this marriage w^as first spoken of, that in ac- 
cepting Madison you were acting under com- 


A DOUBT. 


159 


pulsion of your mother’s influence, I should 
not only have at once put a stop to the affair 
itself, but I should have taken care that such a 
thing never happened again, by peremptorily 
forbidding your mother’s interference, either 
one way or the other, with your future matri- 
monial choice. But I understood from her 
that you accepted him voluntarily ; and your 
conduct gave every color of probability to 
this assertion. I saw you walking and riding 
with him constantly — receiving his attentions 
at all times, as if they were agreeable to you ; 
and when 1 made the direct inquiry of you — 
as a matter of form only, I confess — whether 
you wished to marry the man, you answered 
distinctly that you did.” 

“ Yes, yes, I was a poor, miserable coward ! 
As I told you last night, papa, mamma man- 
aged to throw me with — with him, against my 
will, and to commit me in so many different 
ways, that I was coward enough to feel it im- 
possible to say no, when he finally asked me 
to marry him. But as to my receiving his 
attentions, that was not my fault. Mamma 
would promise him that I would ride or walk 
with him at a certain time, and would 
then insist on my fulfilling the engagement 
when he came to claim it. I never liked him 
— though I did not, when I consented to mar- 
ry him, detest him as I do now. I thought 
that as I had unintentionally led him on, as 
mamma called it, to offer himself — that I 
would try to like him. And, 0 papa, I have 
tried so hard! But the more I saw of him, 
the more did I feel dislike, amounting to ut- 
ter disgust ; and though for a long time I 
would not acknowledge this, even to myself, 
as the time drew nearer and nearer for me 
to marry him, I — I— papa, I could' not endure 
it 1 I abhor him — I loathe him 1 Death would 
be a thousand times preferable to marrying 
him ! 0 papa ! have mercy on me, and save 

me 1 I shall lose my senses or die, if I 
have to marry this man I ” 

“ What can I do at this late hour ? Con- 
sider, Emily — if you had spoken to me a 
month or even a week ago, it would have 
been different ; but you let the engagement 
go on for months, you wait until the marriage 
has been publicly announced, every prepara- 
tion completed, the .very eve of the day ar- 
rives, and you wish to break it off then ! 
Don’t you know that to jilt the man in this 
notorious manner would be most unprincipled, 
most dishonorable conduct ? ” 


She did not answer. She only wrung her 
hands again, with a look of utter de- 
spair. 

“Do not think that I am indifferent to 
your wishes,” continued Mr. Blount, after a 
little pause. “I would do any thing which it 
was possible to do, my daughter, to release 
you from a marriage that seems so repugnant 
to your inclination. But what you propose 
would be a disgraceful breach of faith. Don’t 
you see that ? ” 

“ Is there no hope, no help, for me ? ” she 
asked, with a desperate sort of calmness. 

“No help but in your own strength of 
character. Remember, it was by your own 
act that you were involved in this affair. A 
word to me, at any time, would have relieved 
you of all difficulty. You ought to have 
spoken that word in time. Since you did not 
do so, you are bound in honor to keep your 
faith.” 

“ I would have appealed to you sooner, but 
I was always afraid of you, father,” said the 
girl, bitterly. 

“Afraid of me! What reason had you 
to be afraid of me ? ” demanded he, hastily. 
“ Did I ever once act, or even speak, harshly 
to you ? ” 

“No; you were always kind enough, but 
so cold! You scarcely seemed conscious of 
my existence, unless some accident reminded 
you of it.” 

“ God forgive me ! ” said he, with a groan. 
“ God forgive me ! One false step, one error, 
is the fruitful source of many succeeding evils. 
I was not by nature what is called an affec- 
tionate disposition, not impressionable or 
demonstrative, and the little warmth and 
sentiment that I did possess was frozen 
by—” 

He stopped, and was silent for some min- 
utes. 

“ Emily,” he said, turning suddenly to his 
daughter, “answer me one question. Is it 
some love-affair with another man which 
makes you so averse to marrying Madi- 
son ? ” 

“ No,” she answered, meeting his keen 
glance without the slightest hesitation. “ I 
do not love any other man. I wish I did ; for 
I could ask him to save me, then. No. It 
is just that I detest — loathe — this man ! ” 

She spoke quietly now, as if the climax 
of passionate feeling was past, and something 
very like apathy was stealing over her. Mr. 


160 


A DOUBT. 


Blount looked with anxiety amounting to ap- 
prehension at her pale face and drooping 
form. 

“ My daughter,” said he, abruptly, “ you 
think the sacrifice which your own conduct 
has imposed upon you a hard one. Listen to 
me, and I will tell you of a much harder sacri- 
fice which I once made to a sense of honor. 
Did it ever occur to you to wonder, Emily, 
why I married your mother ? ” 

“ I have always wondered at it,” she an- 
swered, listlessly. 

“ She was handsome when I first saw her, 
and much admired ; and, from the first mo- 
ment of our acquaintance, she exerted every 
effort to attract me. I don’t think that, in- 
trinsically considered, I should have given 
her a single thought, or that it would have 
been possible for her to obtain my most tran- 
sient attention. But I was young and vain, 
and, flattered by the favor voluntarily be- 
stowed on me — a favor which I saw so many 
around me coveting — I was unhappily drawn 
on, until, despite my better judgment, and 
almost before I knew what I was about, I was 
engaged to her. 

“ It was at a watering-place that we met, 
just at the end of the season. On the very 
day after I bad offered myself, and been ac- 
cepted, we parted to return to our respective 
homes. I was startled to find that, as I jour- 
neyed homeward, I dragged a lengthening 
chain, not of regret at parting from her, but 
of repentance that I had been so weak as to 
yield to a momentary infatuation, thus bind- 
ing myself in honor to marry a woman for 
whom I entertained not the slightest genuine 
regard. And, if I felt this at the time, how 
much more did I feel it afterward, when acci- 
dent threw across my path a woman whom I 
could have really loved, whom I did love, not- 
withstanding my struggles against what my 
own folly rendered a hopeless passion ! But 
I did not hesitate, my daughter, as to what I 
should do. The real passion which had taken 
possession of my heart filled it ^ with a dis- 
gust for the woman to whom I had engaged 
myself, equal, at least, to that which you en- 
tertain for this man you are about to marry.” 
The girl shivered at his last words. “ But — 
/ wm hound in honor, and I kept my faith. 
Now, do you not see that my case was harder 
than your own ? I loved another woman. 
You have just assured me that that sting is 
not added to your suffering. I was perfectly 


aware that it was only for my wealth, and my 
reputation as an ambitious and rising man, 
that the coquette who had netted me wished 
to become my wife; while you must acknowl- 
edge that Madison is really attached to you 
for yourself alone. I do not admire him as a 
man ; he certainly would not have been my 
choice as a son-in-law; but I must do him 
the justice to admit that his love for you is 
thoroughly honest and disinterested. I never 
was mistaken in my judgment of a man’s 
character, and I am certain of this.” 

“ What does it matter ? I hate him — I 
abhor him — I loathe him ! Father” (she 
caught his arm with both her hands, and 
looked despairingly in his face), “ do you 
mean to tell me that there is no escape, that 
I must marry him ? ” 

“ My daughter cannot act dishonorably, 
and it would be dishonorable to draw back 
now.” 

“ Then, God help me, since you won’t ! ” 
she cried, burying her face in her hands. 
After a minute, she slowly withdrew them, 
and looked up. “ I am sorry I have dis- 
tressed you in this way, papa, since it has 
done no good. I suppose you are right — that 
every thing ought to be sacrificed to honor. 
I will try to be resigned, since it must be 
so.” 

She rose to go, and her father, rising also, 
bent his head and pressed his lips to her 
brow. 

“ My poor child ! ” he said. 

That was all; but she saw that his eyes 
were full of tears. 

“ Are you so sorry for me as that ? ” she 
said, with a sad, faint smile. And then she 
repeated her last words : “ I will try to be 
resigned, since it must be so.” 


CHAPTER II. 

“ What ! not dressed yet ? ” said Mrs. 
Blount, sweeping into her daughter’s room, 
resplendent in pearl-colored silk, early the 
next morning, and finding Emily still in her 
dressing-gown, standing before a window. “ I 
thought I particularly requested you to be 
punctual, my dear,” she added, with petulant 
reproach. 

“I shall be ready in time,” answered 
Emily, without turning round ; and some 


A DOUBT. 


161 


thing in the tone of her voice grated very 
harshly on her mother’s ear. 

She had managed and manoeuvred, with all 
the skill of a cunning and perfectly unscrupu- 
lous nature, to force her daughter into a mar- 
riage to which, she was well aware, the girl’s 
inclinations were violently opposed ; and she 
felicitated herself on the success of her man- 
agement. But still there was a little of the 
mother yet alive at the bottom of her heart, 
despite the mountain of selfishness overlying 
it ; and latterly this feeling had given her 
some very uncomfortable qualms whenever 
she was in Emily’s presence. The language 
of suffering was written so plainly on the pale 
and altered face, but a little time before so 
bright, that not all the specious arguments 
with which egotism is ever ready to justify 
itself to its worshipper could quite stifle the 
whisperings of remorse. “ I have acted en- 
tirely for her own good, and she will thank 
me for it hereafter,” was the stereotyped 
phrase which she was in the habit of repeat- 
ing to herself when her conscience was a 
little more importunate than usual in con- 
demning her arbitrary conduct in the matter 
of this marriage. She repeated it now, as 
she advanced to where Emily remained stand- 
ing, and exclaimed, with ostentatious cheer- 
fulness : 

“ Let me see if you are looking your best, 
my love, as in duty bound this morn- 
ing ! ” 

Her daughter did not reply, did not even 
seem to hear the remark. She was gazing 
vacantly far away into the blue sky at some 
fleecy white clouds that floated slowly along, 
and wishing, in an apathetic sort of way, that 
she was one of them. 

“ It is time that you were dressing,” said 
Mrs. Blount, in somewhat less honeyed ac- 
cents, for she began to feel both irritated and 
uneasy at this strange manner. 

“ Very well — I will dress,” answered the 
girl, listlessly; but she made no movement 
toward doing so. 

“ Never mind, Mrs. Blount ; I will take 
her in hand, and, trust me, she shall be forth- 
coming at eleven o’clock,” cried a gay voice 
in Mrs. Blount’s rear ; and a young lady in 
bridesmaid’s costume came forward from the 
other side of the apartment, where she had 
been busy at a toilet-table, putting the finish- 
ing touches to her own dress. 

“ Thank you, Miss Laura — I will leave you 
11 


to your task, then,” said Mrs. Blount, gra- 
ciously. “I am particularly anxious to be 
punctual to the appointed hour. It is always 
so tiresome and awkward when there is delay 
on an occasion of this kind.” 

She smiled, and the pearl-colored silk rus- 
tled majestically out of the room. 

“ Come, darling,” said the young lady, 
who had so opportunely for Mrs. Blount en- 
tered an appearance on the scene — Emily’s 
favorite friend and first bridesmaid — Laura 
Ashby — “ come, you must dress.” 

“Very well,” was the reply again; and 
this time she did move. 

She walked across the room to the toilet- 
table, and resigned herself passively into the 
hands of Miss Ashby and her own maid, who 
went to work con amore, and, at least half an 
hour before the stipulated time, presented her 
to her own inspection in the mirror, in all the 
bridal glories of white silk, orange-blossoms, 
and veil, complete. 

“You look lovely, perfectly lovely ! ” cried 
Laura, enthusiastically. “ A little too pale, 
but then it is the regulation thing for a bride 
to be pale — but beautiful as a dream I — Don’t 
she, Lucinda ? ” 

“ ’Deed does she. Miss Laura,” answered 
the maid, in a glow of pride and admiration. 
“ The prettiest bride ever I saw ! ” 

“ Bun, now, and see whether all the bridal- 
party have arrived. I don’t suppose they 
have ; it is early yet. You wait down-stairs 
until it is time for us to go down, and come 
and tell me then. — You know,” she continued, 
turning to Emily, as the maid left the room, 
“ that the guests are to be in the front draw- 
ing-room, and the folding-doors will remain 
closed until we are all in our places in the 
back drawing - room. Then they will be 
thrown open, and the ceremony performed 
immediately. That, and the congratulations, 
and the breakfast, will — but what am I think- 
ing of to let you be standing tiring yourself 
in this way ? Come to the fire, and be quiet 
until we have to go down.” 

“ I would rather go to the window,” said 
Emily, returning to her former position. 
“ Please to raise it up, Laura, I am so 
warm.” 

“ It is a delightful morning,” said Laura, 
pushing up the sash ; “ the air is more like 
April than January.” She drew a large arm- 
chair directly in front of the window as she 
spoke, and made her friend sit down. “Don’t 


162 


A DOUBT. 


crush your dress, though,” she entreated, as 
the other sank into its depths without any 
apparent recollection of that important con- 
sideration. “ Mercy, child ! you will ruin 
your head if you lean back against it in that 
w'ay.” 

Emily looked up with a faint smile. 

“ You can set it to rights again,” she 
said. “ I must lean back ; I am so very 
tired.”' 

She closed her eyes, and Laura, who had 
been wondering privately all the morning at 
the strange manner in which she was acting, 
stood gazing at her now in positive dismay. 

Everybody — that is, everybody who con- 
stituted the fashionable world of J , was 

perfectly aware that this marriage of Mr. 
Madison and Miss Blount was a “made 
match ; ” everybody, excepting Mr. Blount, 
who was not in the way of hearing gossip, 
particularly about his own daughter, had 
“known all along th-at it was a match not at all 
to the taste of the bride ; and she had been 
very much pitied at first. But people took 
it for granted that she had “ become recon- 
ciled to the affair,” and it was with a sudden 
thrill that Laura Ashby now connected her 
singular conduct with the recollection of her 
aversion to the marriage. 

“ Good Heavens ! ” thought she, aghast ; 
and she went and sat down by the fire to 
think the matter over. 

A thousand little circumstances unnoticed 
at the time of their occurrence started up to 
corroborate the dreadful suspicion which had 
flashed upon her mind ; and she was wringing 
her hands, metaphorically, over the miserable 
fate to which her poor friend was condemned, 
when the door opened, and a troop of brides- 
maids were ushered in by Lucinda. 

After exchanging a few sentences with 
Laura, they all followed her with gay words 
and laughter to offer their greetings to the 
bride, who still sat just as Laura had left her 
a few minutes before. 

“ She is asleep,” whispered the first one 
w'ho approached ; and the rest moved softly, 
and spoke in low tones as they gathered 
around the chair. 

“ How lovely she looks ! ” 

“ Beautiful ! ” 

“ Exquisite ! ” 

“ Too pale ! ” 

“ Oh, she will have color when she be- 
comes excited ! ” 


Suddenly a silence fell over the circle— 
the silence of unconscious awe. She was so 
still. They looked at each other in surprise ; 
then a chill doubt and terror came into their 
eyes, and they stood paralyzed. 

It was at this moment that Lucinda ap- 
proached the group, and, struck by the ex- 
pression of all the faces before her, she 
pressed forward, as with an instinct of what 
was to come, gazed for an instant with start- 
ing eyes, then seized one of the white hands 
that hung loosely over the arm of the chair. 
A touch was sufficient. She fell on her knees 
before the motionless form, with a loud, pier- 
cing shriek that rang through the whole 
house, smote fearfully on the ears of the wed- 
ding-guests assembled in the drawing-room 
beneath, and, in the contagious panic of hor- 
ror, was taken up and reechoed by every one 
of the circle of girls around. 


CHAPTER III. 

Emily Blount had watched the sun rise 
that morning of her wedding-day in golden 
splendor ; but clouds gathered at early noon, 
and the same sun sank to his rest in gloom 
and darkness. When the next day dawned 
there seemed a shadow over the heavens as 
deep as the pall of grief that had fallen on 
the house so suddenly changed from a house 
of joy to a house of mourning. The sky was 
one sombre gray ; the air was still and damp. 
People who professed to understand' the 
weather said that a heavy winter storm was 
coming on, which would last for days. There 
were speculations whether Emily Blount’s 
funeral would not, or ought not, to take place 
that afternoon, as the w^eather was so threat- 
ening, the cemetery was a mile from town, 
and the road to it a desperately bad one after 
a rain. Everybody who entertained any in- 
terest on the subject — all the friends. and ac- 
quaintances of the Blounts, that is to say — 
looked anxiously in the morning paper to see 
if there was a notice, but none appeared; 
and it was generally understood during the 
course of the morning that the funeral was 
appointed for the following day. About noon, 
however, there was a burial-paper carried 
round : the funeral would take place at three 
o’clock p. M. It soon transpired, further, 
that Mr. Blount had with difficulty been in- 


A DOUBT. 


163 


dueed to consent to this change of arrange- 
ment, on the representations of the physicians 
attending his wife, that, unless the body of 
her daughter was removed from the house 
very soon, they could not answer for her 
sanity, so violent was her grief and her re- 
morse. 

“ No wonder Mrs. Blount feels remorse ! ” 
said Laura Ashby, as her brother sat down 
beside her in the carriage, to go to the fu- 
neral. “ She is just as much Emily’s mur- 
derer as if she had taken a knife and cut her 
throat ! ” 

Then, with all the eloquence of grief and 
indignation, Laura proceeded to relate to her 
brother (who had returned home only two 
days previously, after a long absence, and 
consequently was not informed in the matter 
of the social gossip of J ) the whole his- 

tory of the “ match ” over which Mrs. Blount 
had made so much rejoicing, and which had 
ended so tragically. 

“ 0 Duncan ! if you had seen her smile, 
her face, ^s she looked up at me just be- 
fore — ” 

The girl paused — her voice choked in tears. 

“ And she died of disease of the heart, it 
is thought ? ” asked Duncan, who was a physi- 
cian, and naturally felt an interest in the sub- 
ject of so unusual and sudden a death, but 
had had no opportunity of speaking to his 
sister about it before, as she had not been at 
home from the time of Emily’s death until 
she returned half an hour before, to change 
her dress for the funeral. 

“ Of course it was disease of the heart,” 
she answered. “ The doctors said so — and 
what else could it have been ? They were 
trying every thing to recover her yesterday 
morning; for the doctors thought at first that 
it might be merely a fainting-fit. But I 
knew better. I knew the instant I looked at 
her that she was dead ! She was just as cold 
and rigid then — and it had not been ten min- 
utes since she was speaking to me — just as 
cold and rigid as she is now. I want you to 
see her, Duncan ; she looks so lovely ! ” 

The carriage stopped at this moment. They 
alighted, and, entering the house, Laura led 
the way at once into the back drawing-room, 
where the body of Emily Blount was lying. 
It was before the days of burial-cases, and 
the top of the coffin had not yet been put on ; 
the full-length figure was visible, in all the 
mocking glory of her bridal array. 


“ How beautiful ! ” was Duncan Ashby’s 
first thought, as his eye rested on it ; and 
then, with a sudden, sharp pain that sur- 
prised himself, he remembered a single line 
of poetry he had lately seen quoted in some 
novel he had been reading : 

“ Death holds not long his fairest guest un- 
changed.” 

The young man had been studying disease 
and death in all their numberless forms, in the 
hospitals of Paris, until, like too many of his 
profession, he had come to practically regard 
the human body simply as a curious piece of 
mechanism animated by the vital principle. 
But he could not look at the form before 
him in this cold, abstract manner. He could 
only gaze on it as a vision of beauty such as 
he had never beheld before. There was not 
the ‘faintest shade of death’s livid hue on the 
pure whiteness of the face; no sinking or 
sharpness of feature ; there was, even, none 
of that peculiar expression around the lips, 
and in the fall of the eyelashes upon the 
cheek, which is the most invai’iable signet set 
by Death upon his victims. And yet it did 
not look like life, either. In both form and 
face there was a rigidness resembling mar- 
ble more than flesh ; and the complexion was 
unnaturally tintless ; bloodlessly transparent 
as Parian. It seemed a thing that belonged 
neither to death nor to life-^but, rather, to the 
realm of the beautiful in art; like 

” Some bright creation of the Grecian chisel : 

As cold, as pale, as passionless, as perfect.” 

How long Duncan Ashby remained in 
rapt contemplation of that lovely mould of 
clay, he could not have told. Indeed, he 
afterward had a very indistinct recollection 
of every thing that occurred during the fol- 
lowing two hours. That double conscious- 
ness which often enables us to acquit our- 
selves creditably in word and manner, while 
our thoughts are far away from time and 
place, must have befriended him ; for, not- 
withstanding that a very grave conflict was 
going on in his mind, no outward token be- 
trayed it. 

Though the hour was barely that of sun- 
set when the long line of carriages that had 
followed Emily Blount’s funeral left the ceme- 
tery gate to return to town, the sky was so 
overcast that dusk had abeady fallen ; and 
when Duncan Ashby and his sister arrived at 
home, it was quite dark. Dinner had been 


164 


A DOUBT. 


kept waiting for them, and to Duncan’s satis- 
faction was served immediately. Laura, ex- 
cusing herself on the plea of a bad headache, 
retired at once to her own room ; and Mr. 
Ashby, pere^ though he had already dined, 
complacently sat down to keep his son com- 
pany. He was rather shocked by the hasty 
manner in which Duncan dispatched the busi- 
ness. He ate — for he was hungry and need- 
ed his dinner — but he ate like a hungry man 
who was in a great hurry ; and on rising from 
table surprised Mr. Ashby by leaving him for 
the evening. He had an engagement, he 
said, which would probably detain him out 
late ; and so he would wish his father good- 
night before going. 

A thin, drizzling rain had set in half an 
hour before, and had been increasing steadily 
in violence ever since ; and consequently it 
was through a pelting shower that Duncan 
made his way to the house of Dr. Boyd, 
Mr. Blount’s family physician. It chanced 
that the doctor, who was a "widower, and kept 
whatever hours suited his convenience of the 
moment, having dined before going to the 
funeral, was just enjoying a substantial sup- 
per, in all the ease and comfort of dressing- 
gown and slippers. Duncan’s ring at the 
door startled him to the indulgence in one or 
two expletives rather more emphatic than 
reverent, for he apprehended that it might 
be a professional call ; and he felt irritated at 
the bare thought of having to leave his com- 
fortable fireside — to say nothing of the whis- 
key-punch which was at that moment in pro- 
cess of brewing by his trusty housekeeper — 
and brave the inclement weather without. 
But, on learning that it was a visitor instead 
of a call, he ordered the servant to show the 
young man in, and rose with the greatest cor- 
diality to welcome him. 

The first salutations over, Duncan, after 
declining supper, as he had just risen from 
dinner, proceeded at once to the business 
which had brought him through the rain and 
the night. 

“ Doctor,” he said, with a smile, “ do you 
know a sane man when you see him ? ” 

The doctor’s eyes opened wide in astonish- 
ment. “ What do you mean ? ” he inquired. 

“ Just put your finger on my pulse, will 
you,” said Duncan, extending his wrist — 
“ and look me straight in the eyes. Well, are 
they the pulse and the eye of health, bodily 
and mental ? ” 


“ What do you mean ? ” asked the doctor 
again. 

“ I have come to you on an errand which 
I am afraid you will consider so insane that, 
before telling you what it is, I think it well 
to take the precautionary measure of con- 
vincing you that I am compos menlisy 

“ We’ll say that I am convinced, then. Go 
on,” said the doctor, whose curiosity was 
considerably excited. 

“In a word, I doubt if the young lady 
who was buried this afternoon, is dead ; and 
I have come to ask you to go with me, with- 
out loss of time, and examine whether my 
suspicion is correct.” 

“ What ! ” cried the doctor, as soon as he 
recovered himself sufficiently to speak, his 
breath having been quite taken away by 
Duncan’s astounding assertion and proposal. 
“ What ! ” 

Duncan repeated, a little more at length, 
what he had said before. 

“ Good Heavens ! ” exclaimed the doctor, 
“ what has put such an idea into your 
head ? ” 

“ It is not an idea, but a doubt, that I en- 
tertain — a faint doubt, I will say — but, a 
doubt. And it seems to me an imperative 
duty to clear it up in time.” 

“ Unquestionably,” answered the doc- 
tor. “ What are your grounds for this 
doubt ? ” 

Duncan proceeded to explain, in technical 
phrase, certain slight appearances and indi- 
cations which he had observed, without at 
the time attaching much importance to them 
— but which gradually acquired more and 
more weight in his estimation, until he final- 
ly resolved, while returning from the funeral, 
to lay them before Dr. Boyd, and entreat his 
assistance in the investigation which he him- 
self was resolved to make. 

“ But why the d — 1,” said the doctor, im- 
patiently, “ didn’t you speak at once? You 
thought the girl was alive, and yet said not a 
word against her being buried ! I’ll be d — d 
if that looks as if you were comjx>s men- 
tis / ” 

“Well, in the first place, as I told you, 
these symptoms, or indications, did not strike 
me very forcibly at the time that I observed 
them. You must be aware, doctor, that there 
is such a thing as dormant perceptions. I am 
afraid that I must acknowledge that, so long 
as I was looking at the body itself, I was con 


A DOUBT. 


165 


scious of nothing but its wonderful beauty. 
It was afterward, as I was looking at the pic- 
ture it left on my memory, that the doubt 
came like a flash to my mind, ‘ Is not this a 
cataleptic trance ? ’ ” 

Dr. Boyd looked thoughtful ; and then 
he asked various questions, all of which Dun- 
can answered readily. 

“ I wisli to Heaven,” he said, finally, that 
you had spoken in time to save all this trou- 
ble, or else that your ‘dormant perceptions’ 
had remained dormant until to-morrow morn- 
ing ! A pretty task this is that you’ve set 
yourself and me, to go diving into a vault on 
a business of this sort, at night — and such a 
night ! Well, how do you propose to proceed 
in the affair? ” he concluded, resignedly. 

“ I leave that for you to decide,” an- 
swered Duncan. “ If you agree with me in 
thinking that, slight as my doubt is, it justi- 
fies, nay, demands an investigation, you can 
best decide what is to be done.” 

The doctor wrinkled his forehead, and 
spent some minutes in profound cogitation. 
Then he rose and rang the bell once — and, 
after an interval of a few seconds, rang it 
again, twice. 

“ Bring round the barouche, Tony,” he 
said to the man-servant who first appeared 
— and who, with a not well-pleased “Yes, sir,” 
disappeared as a woman - servant entered. 
“Clarinda,” said the doctor — “ah, you’ve 
brought the punch — just in good time. — Take 
a glass, Duncan ! — Clarinda, I am going out, 
and may bring back with me, in half an hour or 
a little longer, a — a sick person. Have a room 
ready — with a good fire and a warm bed, and 
have plenty of hot water and hot bricks on 
hand, so as to be ready for any emergency. 
And, hark you ! don’t be scared at any thing 
you may see when I return. Bring my boots, 
coat, and overcoat.” 

With a heart-felt sigh, he put off his dress- 
ing-gown and slippers, indued the out-door 
costume, and, after paying his respects to the 
punch, he and Duncan sallied forth. They 
found the barouche and Tony waiting. The 
latter, to his great joy, having been informed 
that his attendance was not required, they 
entered the carriage and drove off at a pace 
which soon brought them to the door of the 
small house near the cemetery, which was oc- 
cupied by the sexton who had charge of the 
place. By a considerable expenditure of 
time, patience, and argument, this personage 


was convinced that their errand to Mr 
Blount’s family vault was not of an illegiti 
mate and nefarious nature. It took all the 
weight of Dr. Boyd’s character to reassure 
the natural distrust with which the sexton 
regarded the medical profession in connection 
with burial-grounds. Finally, however, his 
scruples were satisfied — more particularly as 
he was invited to inspect their proceedings 
with his own eyes — and, taking his dark lan- 
tern in one hand, and his keys in the other, 
he preceded the two gentlemen along the wind- 
ing gravel-walk which led to their point of 
destination. In a few minutes they found 
themselves within the vault. 

It was a dank, dismal place, ill venti- 
lated, and consequently very damp ; paved 
and walled with brick, and surrounded on 
three sides by a shelf of about two feet in 
width, on which was deposited half a score 
or so of coffins, some of which had mouldered 
almost to dust, w'hile others were perfectly 
sound apparently, though all but the one 
which had been so recently deposited were 
mouldy and mildewed. Having lighted the 
candles which they had brought, and so dis- 
posed them as to throw a good light over 
their further proceedings, they, with the as- 
sistance of the sexton, lifted the coffin which 
they came to inspect from the shelf to the 
floor. The lid was unscrewed, and, after ex- 
changing one glance, they lifted it from the 
shell. 

There was no change in the appearance 
of the body. Dr. Boyd touched the brow, 
the hands ; drew forth a pocket-mirror, and, 
holding it before the nostrils, examined care- 
fully to see whether the glass was dimmed. 
Then he shook his head. 

“ We have our labor for our pains,” he 
said, in a low tone. “Still I am glad we 
came. After you had once put that ugly 
thought of burying alive into my head, I 
could not have rested until I convinced my- 
self, by ocular demonstration, that there was 
no danger of such a thing. I suppose you 
are satisfied now ? I am, and I think we 
had better close the coffin and go.” 

“ Stop a moment,” said Duncan. “ I will 
be satisfied, doctor, with two more tests. 
Try the first yourself ; put your hand under 
the armpits, and see if there is the same 
chill there as here.” He pointed to the 
brow. 

Dr. Boyd did as requested. With some 


166 


A DOUBT. 


difficulty he insinuated his fingers between 
the arm and the chest, on the outside of the 
clothing. His face changed a little. He 
thought or he imagined that there was not 
that penetrating chill of death here. To de- 
cide the point, he opened his penknife, and, 
with a hand that trembled slightly, he in- 
serted the blade in the edge of the dress at 
the throat, and cut through the lace, silk, 
and linen, that enveloped the bust. He 
placed his hand first over the heart, waited 
patiently, examined closely, and again shook 
his head. 

“ The armpits ! ” said Duncan. 

The doctor pushed his hand slowly along^ 
finally paused and started; then, with almost 
a bound, he exclaimed, “ By Heaven, you are 
right ! there is warmth — she is not dead ! ” 
Now, see here,” said Duncan. He lifted 


her right hand, straightening the elbow, anc 
putting the fingers into the position of point- 
ing at the other side of the vault ; after which 
he withdrew his hold of it, and it remained 
precisely as he had placed it. 

“ Catalepsy ! ” said Dr. Boyd. “ God bless 
you — you have saved her ! ” 

Yes, she was saved, but not without much 
suffering. For months she labored under the 
disease by which she had been so suddenly 
attacked, and which had so nearly caused to 
her the horrible fate from which Duncan 
Ashby’s “ doubt ” rescued her. Skill and 
time conquered it eventually, however ; and, 
when health again bloomed in her cheek, a 
second wedding-day dawned for her. And 
this time Mr. Madison was not the bride- 
groom. 


THE END. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


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“The fascination of Dona Luz and her history is that of a most tender and tragic 
beauty. We know hardly any figure in fiction more lovely and affecting, ... It is all very 
fine and masterly work, scarcely to be matched in the contemporary fiction of our language, 
if that is not putting the case too faintly.”— W, D. Howells, in ITarper's Magazine. 

“ An artistic piece of fiction.” — Philadelphia Ledger. 

“ Without question one of the most beautiful stories that has been published in a long 
time.” — The Book Buyer. 



“The novel is a strong one, and exhibits much skill and delicacy of touch.” — New 
York Tribune. 

“ The style is clear-cut and admirable.” — Baltimore American. 

“ Not to read it is to miss a witty and entertaining story.” — New York Sun. 

“ It is an admirable portrait, and delightful for the truth in it.” — Boston Times. 

“ A new romance by the eminent Spanish novelist, Senor Juan Valera, is an event and a 
lesson in contemporary literature. The sure and easy touch, the strong effects produced 
inevitably by simple causes, the fine admixture of the comic and the tragic, the brilliant and 
faithful pictures of life, are very impressive.” — Boston Literary World. 


OMMANDER MENDOZA. 



“In ‘•Commander Mendoza’ Juan Valera presents a story of much novelty and of 
decided merit. . . . The plot is complicated, and there is a mystery which is not solved until 
the end is reached. The contrasts of type and character are skillfully handled. It is a book 
which can not fail' to interest its readers.” — Boston Times. 

“There is charm with an old-fashioned savor about this novelette, descriptive of men 
and women in Spain as they existed a hundred years ago, and in a quiet way, imperceptibly, 
as it were, it contrasts the present with the past.” — New York Times. 

“Indeed, all the characters are very natural, and in the various incidents in which they 
figure we get glimpses of a life so foreign to our own that the reading of each page of the 
novel has the zest of absolute novelty. It is a skillful piece of fiction,” — Boston Saturday 
Evening Gazette. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


FELIX GRAS’S ROMANCES. 



Reds of the Midi.” Translated by Mrs. Catharine A. Janvier. i6mo. 
Cloth, $1.50. 


“If Felix Gras had never done any other work than this novel, it would at once 
give him a place in the front rank of the writers of to-day. . . . ‘ The Terror’ is a 
story that deserves to be widely read, for, while it is of thrilling interest, holding the 
reader’s attention closely, there is about it a literary quality that makes it worthy of 
something more than a careless perusal.” — Brooklyn Eagle. 

“ Romantic conditions could hardly be better presented than in a book of this kind, 
and above all, in a book by Felix Gras. . . . The romance is replete with interest.” — 
New York Times. 

“ There is genius in the book. The narrative throbs with a palpitation of virile 
force and nervous vigor. Read it as a mere story, and it is absorbing beyond descrip- 
tion. Consider it as a historical picture, . . . and its extraordinary power and signifi- 
cance are apparent.” — Philadelphia Press. 

“ The book may be recommended to those who like strong, artistic, and exciting 
romances.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“ Many as have been the novels which have the Revolution as their scene, not one 
surpasses, if equals, in thrilling interest.” — Cleveland Plain Dealer. 



HE REDS OF THE MIDI. An Episode of the French 
Revolution By Felix Gras. Translated from the Provencal by Mrs. 
Catharine A. Janvier. With an Introduction by Thomas A. Janvier. 
With Frontispiece. i6mo. Cloth, $1.50. 


“ I have read with great and sustained interest ‘ The Reds of the South,’ which you 
were good enough to present to me. Though a work of fiction, it aims at painting the 
historical features, and such works if faithfully executed throw more light than many 
so-called histories on the true roots and causes of the Revolution, which are so widely 
and so gravely misunderstood. As a novel it seems to me to be written with great 
skill .” — William E. Gladstone. 


“ Patriotism, a profound and sympathetic insight into the history of a great epoch, 
and a poet’s delicate sensitiveness to the beauties of form and expression have com- 
bined to make M. Felix Gras’s ‘ The Reds of the Midi’ a work of real literary value. 
It is as far as possible removed from sensationalism ; it is, on the contrary, subdued, 
simple, unassuming, profoundly sincere. Such artifice as the author has found it 
necessary to employ has been carefully concealed, and if we feel its presence, it is only 
because experience has taught that the quality is indispensable to a work which affects 
the imagination so promptly and with such force as does this quiet narrative of the 
P'rench Revolution .” — New York Tribtine. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 















